


Sound Of Your Voice

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depression, Disability, M/M, Songfic, car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-02-15 06:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2219457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A car accident causes Paul to lose his hearing, and John is afraid it has changed him forever. (Angst and depression for a lot of the fic)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t have a particular time period in mind when I wrote this, so assume it's an AU where Beatlemania wasn’t so crazy and no screaming girls were following the boys wherever they go.  
> The title comes from the song “Sound Of Your Voice” by the Barenaked Ladies.

_The moon is full, but there is an incompleteness_

_The days are beautiful, but there is a bittersweetness_

_If I had a wish, or even I choice, I’d wake up to the sound of your voice_

_Oh, how I miss waking up to the sound of your voice._

_~ ~ ~_

When John opens his eyes, he is greeted by Paul’s face, a slight smile on his lips as he gazes down. John can’t help but smile back. “What’re you lookin’ at?” he asks.

Paul’s smile widens, and he snuggles closer to John, resting his head on his shoulder. “You were watching me sleep again, weren’t you?” John accuses.

Paul laughs. “You’re all peaceful. And your eyelids flutter. It’s…well…”

John growls in the back of his throat. “I swear, if you say adorable…”

“It’s _beyond_ adorable.”

John turns to face Paul, narrowing his eyes. “I’m John fucking Lennon, son. I’m not adorable.”

Paul stretches forward and kisses his nose. John scrunches his face up and jerks back. Paul laughs again. “See? Adorable.”

John rolls his eyes. “Mm. Whatever. How about a good morning kiss, then? In honor of me adorable self.”

Paul obliges, smiling. “You’re a needy git, you know that?”

John smirks. “ _I’m_ the needy one? Do I need to remind you what you were screaming last night?”

Paul sighs. “Jo _-ohn_.”

“It was something like ‘ _harder, Johnny, oh god, I_ need _you_ ,’ wasn’t it?”

“Arse. I meant arse. You are an _arse_ , Lennon.”

“An adorable arse.”

“Shut _up_.”

John grins and claims another kiss.

~ ~ ~

This is the 143rd morning that Paul has woken up in John’s bed. He’s kept track, from the first night, to the first time after moving in together, to now. 127 times out of those 143, Paul has woken up first, and turned over to see the sleeping form of John Lennon next to him, breathing softly. And each time Paul has smiled and watched as John wakes up, waiting to hear the first thing that John says. Because Paul loves waking up to the sound of John’s voice.

~ ~ ~

“What time are we supposed to get to the studio?” John asks, finishing his piece of toast in a matter of minutes.

Paul glances at the clock. “In about half an hour.”

John grins. “We’ve got time, then.”

Paul looks at him with a smirk. “It’s not even _eight_.”

John walks over to the couch where Paul is reading the paper and climbs onto his lap. “C’mon, just a quickie,” he murmurs in Paul’s ear. John kisses him slowly and deliberately to get a reaction out of him.

“You’re hornier than a fifteen year old,” Paul scolds, but he kisses back.

It’s a typical morning for them.

~ ~ ~

Fifteen minutes later, Paul is in the passenger seat of John’s car. They’re on their way to the studio, like always. There’s no warning, no premonition or omen that foretells anything out of the ordinary for this morning.

That’s when the car hits them.

John’s crossing an intersection; the lights are green, he’s looked both ways. He steps on the accelerator. It’s all fine until Paul grabs his shoulder and yells “JOHN!” and there is a sudden explosion from the left side of the car.

John’s head pitches forward, he hears glass shatter, and then everything seems to shut off.

~ ~ ~

Someone is moaning. A moment passes and John realizes it’s him; the sound is coming out of his mouth. It sounds alien, pained and shrill and so unlike John that it scares him. Almost as much as the sight of Paul when he turns, sees the bloodied head and the closed eyes.

“Paul!” he says, in that same panicked voice, and he shakes his boyfriend desperately. Paul groans, but the sound is barely there. “Paul, no, c’mon, Paul…”

“J…” Paul’s mouth moves, and he tries to form words but there aren’t any. He breathes shallowly, the air coming in rattling starts and stops.

John snaps his fingers, ignoring the flashing blue dots that have begun swimming in front of his eyes. “Stay awake! Paul, listen to me, you’ve gotta stay awake, fucking stay awake, all right? Do it for me, Paulie, c’mon, eyes open…”

Paul opens his mouth again. “John—” he begins, but he stops, and slowly opens his eyes, confused and scared. He can see John’s mouth opening and closing, he feels his own vocal chords moving, but no sound is entering his head. “John!” he tries again, but the sound is lost the moment he pushes it out. Out of fatigue and shock, he passes out.

“No, no—Paul!” John screams, but Paul wouldn’t have been able to hear him had he been awake.

John is aware of the fact that his own head is bleeding. He reaches up to find he has a cut on the side of his head.

Doesn’t matter.

He reaches over to unbuckle Paul’s seat. “Paul, Paul, wake up, love, you’ve gotta wake up.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees red lights flashing. Tears leak from his eyes. “Paul, fucking wake up!” He finds that the passenger door has been forced inwards, crushing Paul’s left arm and pinning him down.

“Shit, shit, fucking _shit_ ,” John chokes out, and he hears voices calling to him. His ears are ringing, there’s a dull ache in his head, and it’s _throbbing_ , and someone is opening his door and surveying the damage, asking him if he’s all right and he says, “Paul’s not awake,” and the person checks his pulse.

“You’re going to be okay,” the man reassures him, and John wants to tell him that _Paul is not okay_ , but the blue dots are bigger now, clouding his vision, and the ringing in his ears has become deafening, and he slowly slips away.

~ ~ ~

When John wakes up, his first thought is Paul. His head is sore and the skin feels taut and itchy. When he reaches up, he feels stitches. He has several cuts on his arms. A heart monitor is beeping dutifully next to him, perfectly matching the pounding in his chest.

His throat is dry, and he has to cough before he can make a sound. When the nurse comes running in, asking him what’s wrong, he says, “Where’s Paul? Where is he, is he okay?”

The heart monitor beeps more frequently, and the nurse shushes him. “Lie down, Mr. Lennon, you’re working yourself up.”

“Tell me where he is!” he growls.

“Mr. McCartney has a few bruised ribs, two fractures in his arm, and severe head trauma, but he’s handling it remarkably well. He may be in pain when he wakes up, but he’ll be fine in the long run,” the nurse reassures him.

“You mean he hasn’t woken up yet?” John demands. “I have to see him,” he says, and tries to get up before his is gently forced back into bed. “Let me see him!”

The nurse has a firm hand. “You can see him as soon as he’s spoken with the doctor, all right?”

“Jus’ let me see him,” John says, pleading now. “I’ve gotta see him.”

“Mr. Lennon, the doctor needs to speak with him before he sees anyone.”

“I’m his”—John almost says boyfriend, but he catches himself—“best friend, I’m not just anyone. _I need to see him_.”

“I’m afraid that’s just not an option right now,” she says gently. “Please relax, all right? I’ll come back the moment he’s woken up.” John sits back reluctantly, realizing how exhausted he is. “In the meantime, you’ve got some visitors.”

~ ~ ~

Brian has his head in his hands. “His arm’s broken in two places!” he groans. “Do you know what this is going to do for recording? He won’t be able to play for weeks!”

John looks at him, disgusted. “Eppy. Have some fuckin’ _empathy_ , for the love of all things holy.”

Ringo watches John closely. “It’s his way of coping, I think,” he says. “He’s always thinkin,’ you know.”

“Don’t defend him,” John retorts halfheartedly. “How long have you been in here, anyway?”

“They called us at around nine,” George says, glancing at his watch. “You’ve been here about five hours now.”

“It’s been five hours and Paul’s not up yet?” John says, and his voice is smaller than he means for it to be. He sits up restlessly. “Isn’t there somethin’ they can fucking do?”

“He’s on loads of painkillers already,” Ringo points out. “They keep saying he’ll be fine, they just need to talk to him. Y’know, concussion and all.”

“Yeah, well, that’s a bunch of shit, isn’t it? How do we know there isn’t, I dunno, brain damage?” John points out, and suddenly he realizes—what if Paul doesn’t get better? What if he’s got some sort of blood clot in his brain, or his skull’s pushed too far in? What if he wakes up, but he’s different? What if he’s got amnesia? What if this morning is the last time John will ever wake up with Paul at his side?

“Jesus,” John says softly, and he realizes he’s crying. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”

“He’s going to wake up,” George says firmly.

“Yeah, but what if he fucking _doesn’t?”_

“He will.”

Ringo and Brian nod in silent agreement. George is right. Paul will wake up, and Paul will be okay. Paul _not_ being okay is simply not an option. It’s unthinkable. It’s inconceivable, and they will not even go there. If Paul isn’t okay, their world will collapse.

So Paul is most definitely going to be okay. It is a mutual understanding that the three of them have come to in their long hours in the waiting room. Paul will get better by the sheer force of their will, if it comes to that, because there is one thing they know: Brian cannot live without Paul. Ringo cannot live without Paul. George cannot live without Paul.

John cannot live without Paul.

~ ~ ~

Paul doesn’t know what’s going on when he wakes up. There are nurses around him, three of them, and one of them is close to his face, her lips moving and face friendly. He looks at her, frowning. He must still be asleep. Everything is quiet; eerily so, and he doesn’t like it.

Someone flashes a light in his eyes, causing him to flinch back. “Watch it,” he grumbles, so quiet he can’t even hear it. “Can you shut that off?” he says again, and freezes in shock. He had felt his mouth move, felt his voice as it left his lips, but he heard not a word.

“Hello?” he tries again, and by this time the nurses are writing things down on their notepads and looking at him curiously. One reaches out and claps—Paul sees this instead of hearing it—close to his ear, and tells her companions something.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” Paul says, trying to figure out why the hell his ears aren’t working. He knows what _should_ be happening, but they feel blocked off. He tries to move his hand up to touch his ears, and suddenly he becomes immensely aware of the rest of his body. His chest is in a brace, and his entire ribcage is surrounded by an overpowering ache. His left arm is in a cast. _Fuck,_ he thinks. “Is John okay?”

A nurse shakes her head, but not at him. This time when she speaks, he watches her lips. She’s saying something about paper, and moments later someone is handing him a pen and a sheet of paper. The woman points to it, says something about writing. “I don’t want paper,” he says, or he thinks he says. He can’t tell anymore.

 _How do you feel?_ The nurse is asking him, moving her lips slowly like he’s a kid or something. “There’s somethin’ wrong, my ears aren’t working,” Paul says. The more he talks the more scared he’s becoming. Is he even talking at all? Or is his mouth just moving? He can feel his vocal chords in his throat, so _something_ must be working, surely. Suddenly the air seems thick and his chest feels tight and he can feel his eyes starting to smart. “I can’t…” Paul chokes.

A nurse puts her hand on his chest to make him lay down. She says something quickly that he can’t decipher, something about _panic_ and _breathe_.

He’s having a panic attack, he realizes, and he _tries_ to breathe, but he can’t get the air to come in properly, and why is everything so quiet? And where is John in all of this—they never said—and why can’t his voice work properly and why is it _so fucking quiet_?

“Why can’t I _hear_ anything?” he demands, and he doesn’t know how loud he says it but the nurses flinch back in surprise, and he feels the panic rising in his chest and nothing makes sense until a nurse makes him lay back and someone else injects something into his shoulder.

The last thing he remembers is feeling very, very alone.

~ ~ ~

The nurse comes back into John’s room long after the boys have left for the night. “Well?” John demands. “Can I talk to him?”

The nurse purses her lips and looks at him with an expression that John hates immediately. It’s a sympathetic, _how-do-I-put-this-lightly_ look. “What’s happened?” he asks, his heart sinking.

“He’s, well, he’s woken up.”

“ _And?”_

“His ribs look like they should heal nicely, and he’s in a good amount of pain, but his vitals are good for someone who’s been in a—”

“Tell me what’s fucking wrong with him!” John yells, not caring when the nurse flinches back.

“The trauma to his head was more severe than we imagined,” she says softly. “His hearing has been greatly damaged.”

John swallows hard. “What’s that mean?” he asks.

“He can’t hear anything, Mr. Lennon. At least for the time being. He may regain the ability eventually, but there are no promises.”

John takes a deep breath, looking down at one of the cuts on his arm.

Paul? Paul, his Paul, can’t hear? The Paul who gets up in the middle of the night play a melody on the piano he’s just thought of, the Paul who taught him to tune his guitar, the Paul who can pick up a harmony off the radio in his sleep, the Paul with such a good ear that George Martin was impressed? That Paul?

“Can he…can he talk?” John asks, his voice impossibly quiet.

The nurse nods, glad to be bringing some good news. “It sounds a bit odd, since he can’t hear the things he’s saying, but he still remembers how to speak. And it turns out that he’s quite good at reading lips.” She smiles, as though this might lessen the blow.

“Well, that’s _brilliant_ , isn’t it?” John spits. “I feel _so_ much better, _thank_ you.”

The nurse looks offended—and she rightly should be, with his tone—but she closes her mouth moments after opening it. She seems to realize nothing she says will have any influence on his mood. “The doctor will be back in. Hopefully you’ll be on your way soon,” she says flatly. She leaves with that, and John is alone.

“Fuck,” John says, for the sake of saying something.

He does not feel better.

~ ~ ~

John is ready when the doctor comes in to speak with him.  
  
“When can I see Paul?”

He’s a small man with graying hair and little glasses that frankly John wants to knock off his goddamn face. The doctor clears his throat and says, “Mr. McCartney is currently asleep. He’s been having some trouble coming to terms with what’s happened to him.”

“Well, no _shit_. That’s why he fuckin’ _needs_ me right now, I have to see him.”

“I’m afraid it won’t do him any good unless he’s awake, will it, Mr. Lennon?” The doctor is talking in a calm, measured voice, like he’s gently scolding a small child.

“Don’t fucking _patronize_ me, all right? Jesus. When he wakes up, you have to get me. The second he wakes up, you have to take me to him.” John is insistent. “You _have to_ , okay? Got it?”

The doctor, instead of answering, says, “You’re lucky you got out with the injuries you did. Both of you could have perished in that crash.”

“You’re not _Paul_ , though, you don’t _get it_ , he probably thinks he fuckin’ _is_ dying if he can’t hear, d’you know how much of a fucking nightmare that is to him?! I _have to see him_.”

“Even so, Mr. Lennon, he is _not_ in fact dying, and you should consider yourself lucky that neither of you not in an alternative position.” Fuck, John wants to punch the arsehole in the face.

“What about the drunk fuck that crashed into us, where’s he?”

“He died, Mr. Lennon.”

John doesn’t hesitate. “Fucking got what he deserved, then, didn’t he?”

“You really think he deserved to die?” the doctor asks gently.

John laughs mirthlessly. “Have you seen Paul? His ribs are crushed, his arm is broken, his head’s all fucked up and he won’t even be able to hear me talking to him, and you want that bloody prick to be walking away with his head held high?”

The doctor smiles tightly. “You can visit Paul any time between nine a.m. and seven p.m. once he’s woken up, Mr. Lennon. You’re free to go.”

~ ~ ~

John visits him the next day. Paul looks up at him with large, sad eyes, and says, “Hey.”

And for a split second, John thinks everything is okay, and he starts to crack a smile before he sees the tears in Paul’s eyes. He rushes over and climbs into the bed with Paul, careful not to upset his ribs or his arm. “Hey, shhh, it’s okay. I’m here.” John kisses him. Paul takes a moment before he kisses back, and the hesitation makes John’s blood freeze. “It’ll be all right. I love you, okay? I love you so much.”

Paul looks at him for a minute, and John can’t understand the look in his eyes. “I can’t hear you,” Paul says finally, and he starts to cry. John holds him as best he can, but he knows it’s not enough.

“I love you,” he says again, by way of response. He thinks Paul understands him this time, but he just buries his face in the crook of John’s neck and cries as John strokes his hair.

There’s nothing he can say. Even if there was, Paul wouldn’t be there to hear it. The most John can do is just be there with him.

Eventually Paul calms and relaxes in John’s arms. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” he says. He’s speaking slowly and carefully as though he’s unsure of how to use his own voice.

“We’ll get through it,” John says. He kisses Paul’s ear softly, moving down his jaw and his neck. “We’ll be okay.” Paul lays back and lets John kiss him, until finally he makes a little huffing sound and tilts his chin up a bit for John to kiss his lips.

John can’t help smiling slightly at this, but he quickly sobers, feeling guilty. So instead he just kisses Paul. He doesn’t know for how long, but finally Paul breaks off and tangles his hand through John’s hair before pulling away entirely. “The nurse’ll be here soon.”

“Okay,” John whispers, not wanting to leave Paul all alone in such a big, unfriendly bed. Because John can see it in Paul’s eyes, how alone he feels. John doesn’t want to see the sadness there. He kisses Paul one more time before climbing out of the bed carefully and pulling up a chair instead.

He’s not quite sure what to do now. They can’t talk. Paul doesn’t look much like he wants to talk, anyway. John can’t read to him or sing to him. He’d feel bad to sit there reading by himself. So John just watches Paul as Paul watches him.

John can’t help feeling guilty when he finds himself hating how quiet it is.

~ ~ ~

John spends two weeks alone in their apartment. It’s too big for one person, John thinks, even though it was Paul’s before they moved in together. Nights are agonizingly long.

Visiting Paul isn’t much better. John feels lonely at home, but he somehow feels lonelier when he’s with Paul. Because Paul looks even more alone than John feels, and John can’t figure out how he can help. Paul kisses him a lot, but it’s not like he’d done before. Paul kisses him like he’s trying to forget everything else, like it’s just a way to keep himself occupied. Like it’s the only way for him to stay sane.

Not necessarily like he wants to.

John visits Paul almost every day. He skips a day here and there because he just can’t bear looking at Paul and seeing how terribly sad he seems. He can’t bear the fact that there seems to be a wall between them whenever he’s there.

It’s a bit better on the days that Ringo and George and Brian visit with him. Paul puts on a brave face for them, laughs at the jokes he can’t hear and makes jokes himself. He grins at them, but John can see he doesn’t want them to worry.

John doesn’t have the luxury not to worry. Whenever the others are there, he desperately wishes they would leave, so he can stroke Paul’s cheek and hold him and tell him it’ll be okay even if it won’t reach his ears. When the others aren’t there, John wishes he had someone else to brave Paul with him. So John puts on a brave face as well, when they’re there, and he thinks they believe both acts.

Until Ringo and George come back to the apartment with him one night, and George looks at him with concern and says, “It’s all going to shit, isn’t it? You two?”

And John just pours himself a drink and says, “Yeah, it is.”

~ ~ ~

John gets a call from the hospital at the beginning of the third week. He takes a cab in immediately—he hasn’t had the guts to drive himself anywhere since—and gets there a few minutes after visitor hours begin.

“John Lennon,” he says to the receptionist. “Here for Paul McCartney.”

The woman is relatively young, a bit pretty, John thinks, maybe in her mid thirties. She raises her eyebrows at his name. “John Lennon—is it really you? My daughter adores you—do you think you could…” She trails off when she sees his face. “Ah… excuse me, Mr. Lennon. Very inappropriate, I know. Mr. McCartney’s upstairs, I’ll get someone to take you up.”

“Thanks,” John says. Wearily, he takes a pen out of his pocket and takes a piece of scrap paper from the pile on her desk. “What’s your daughter’s name?”

The receptionist looks shocked and pleased. “Oh—thank you so much, she’ll love me for this. Jenny is her name, Jenny Miller. Oh, God, this’ll be like _Christmas!_ ”

“And how old?”

“Nine years old,” she says happily.

“Right,” John says, scrawling his name and a message. “Well, tell little Jenny I said hullo, will you?”

“Right—thank you, Mr. Lennon!”

John nods as a nurse waves him over to the staircase to bring him to Paul’s room. He doesn’t know why he humored the woman. Maybe he just wanted to make someone else happy since he’d been feeling so shitty lately. Fuck, what had his life come to?

“Mr. McCartney’s asleep right now, but I imagine he should wake up soon enough. He’ll be able to go home by the end of today, if you’d like to wait as long,” the nurse tells him as they walk up to the second floor.

John is relieved, but it’s momentary. “He still can’t hear anything,” the nurse adds. Whatever mood he’d been in before, John loses it almost immediately.

“Yeah, so glad you could help,” he says sarcastically, snapping a bit. The nurse looks at him unappreciatively, but overall ignores his comment.

“You can sign him out at reception. Make sure he takes his medication twice a day, and—”

“All right, he’s not a fucking _child_ ,” John hisses. “He can take care of himself, okay?”

The nurse looks at him sternly and says, “And, if you can, try to keep him away from any instruments. I know that’ll be hard, given your…occupation…” She pauses, the anger at John fading into concern. “He’s having a very difficult time.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“Mr. Lennon, we’re worried that your friend is suffering from post-traumatic stress.”

John looks at her, starting to feel incredibly tired. He sighs and says, “I’ll make sure he’s okay, all right? We’ll be fine.”

John says this more for his benefit than anything else.

The nurse looks at him with pursed lips. “I’ll get him at the end of the day,” John tells her, because suddenly he wants to run away. The guilt is no match for the fear he feels.

~ ~ ~

John’s head is clear when he comes back to take Paul home in the afternoon. Paul’s back is turned from the door when John walks in, but he finds Paul’s packed suitcase and picks it up.

“Let’s go then, Paul,” John says. Paul gives no indication that he’s heard, and John’s heart lurches when he realizes his mistake. He reaches up and tugs at the sleeve of Paul’s shirt. He knows the last thing Paul would want is pity, but John can’t help feeling sorry for him when he sees the look on his face. “Let’s go,” he repeats slowly.

Paul studies John’s face, looking a bit tired. He holds his arms out. John leans in and kisses him softly, trying to convey his thoughts into the kiss. Paul hums against his mouth, pulling John closer and stroking the hair at John’s neck. They stay like that for a few minutes, not so much kissing as much as just being close to one another.

“I still can’t hear you,” Paul says when he pulls away. As if John doesn’t know.

“I know,” John responds, not sure how else to communicate. “I missed you, Paul.” He’s almost glad Paul can’t hear the crack in his voice, and he bites his lip before he can say something else.

He’s not sure what that something else might be, but the possibilities frighten him.

~ ~ ~

It’s tense when they get home. The first few days are painful and too quiet for both of them. John quickly learns that he can’t speak unless he’s fully facing Paul and talking slowly and articulately, so they rarely leave the room without the other.

But there’s still a distance between them, and John can feel it like a cold hand on the back his neck. Paul barely speaks. He doesn’t like to. “Makes me feel deaf,” he’d said, and John could only look at him and try to understand.

John buys earplugs the next time he’s out getting groceries—Paul doesn’t much leave the house anymore; too many sounds to miss. John puts them in his ears as far as they’ll go and sits on a bench outside their apartment building. The sounds are stifled, barely audible, but he can still hear the car horns and people talking if they’re loud and close enough.

He tries covering his ears, and then the sounds are gone. It feels strange, but not strange enough. Because he knows they’re just earplugs—take them out and everything will go back to normal. John tries to speak, but his voice comes out just as normally as it always does. He guesses you have to be properly deaf to not even hear yourself.

He sits on that bench for a long time, much longer than he should. He doesn’t know how to help Paul cope. He doesn’t know how to lessen his pain or make him feel normal again.

If normal is possible anymore.

John can tell Paul isn’t sure what to do with himself. All their usual past-times seem dull now. He can’t watch telly or listen to music. _Can’t even play his own guitar,_ John thinks as he makes them a pot of tea. Paul doesn’t have the same love of reading as John does. He reads every so often, but not often enough to pass the time. Paul actually prefers it when John reads to him, but that’s no longer an option.

On the fifth day, Paul kisses John with ferocity for the first time since they got back. John pushes him back, looks him in the eyes, and says, concerned, “We don’t have to, it’s okay.”

“I want to,” Paul says, and kisses him again.

Paul takes John’s clothes off slowly, kissing him the whole way through. He lets John do the same to him, and they fall into bed together.

John isn’t quite sure how to go about it without hurting Paul’s ribs, which are still sore. His arm is still in a cast—not very sexy—but Paul seems to be quite determined. “You can fuck me this time,” John says, but Paul shakes his head.

“Need you,” he responds, and pulls John closer.

John prefers fucking face-to-face, so they can kiss each other and and look into each other’s eyes like disgusting sappy couples in romance films. But Paul isn’t in much of a state to be folded in half, so John ends up fucking Paul into the mattress while Paul clutches at the sheets, his face half-buried in a pillow.

They do it slow this time, and John kisses Paul’s shoulders as they go, listening to Paul’s breath catch and quicken with each thrust. He doesn’t make an audible sound other than that. John likes it when Paul moans, but he knows it’s useless to say anything.

When they finish, Paul turns over and kisses him, sloppy and exhausted. John kisses him back, and they fall into their normal sleeping positions, holding each other close.

They both go to sleep with the distinct feeling that there is something missing.

~ ~ ~

John quickly learns, as does Paul, that sex is practically the only activity they can do that still feels almost normal.

So they do it often.

But it doesn’t help them feel closer.

~ ~ ~

Paul stops waking up before John in the morning. He’s not strong enough to watch John wake up, anticipating the first words that come out of his lovely mouth, only to hear nothing at all. He desperately misses the sound of John’s voice. It keeps Paul awake at night, all the words he’s been missing. He can see the “I love you”s, but he doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t feel them.

He feels detached from the world. Isolated. Sometimes he’ll wake up to John holding him, innocent and protective, and he’ll feel okay. But then he’ll wake up a little more and remember.

Paul knows his sadness is consuming both of their lives. He doesn’t want it to. He’d stop it if he could.

He’s even thought about breaking up with John just to give him the chance to get away. Away from Paul and his moods and the distressingly quiet apartment and the sadness that lingers there. Paul knows it’s not good for either of them, and he thinks he should at least save John from it.

But Paul can’t bear to give him up.

~ ~ ~

Nobody has dared mention it, but the question of the fate of the Beatles lingers in the air. Paul’s cast has come off, but he gives no sign of making a recovery with his hearing. He seems to have crumpled in on himself, resigned to the fact that he may be deaf forever.

Ringo and George and sometimes Brian visit from time to time. They seem to sense Paul’s resignation, as John does. They seem to sense the sadness that seems to pollute the apartment. They invite John out occasionally. They don’t seem to understand that John has to stay with Paul, even if out of obligation alone. Sometimes John calls them when Paul’s asleep just to hear someone else’s voice. Just to feel less alone.

Sometimes John feels like his own ability to hear is causing Paul pain. He thinks his presence in the apartment might be doing Paul more harm than good. The most they interact is when they have sex—which, admittedly, is often. But it feels even less connected than when they’re not together. They do it to pass the time, to feel something again. Not because they want to.

John thinks Paul might get better faster if he wasn’t there.

He’s thought about moving out just to give him some space. Maybe he’d feel better if he came to terms with his condition on his own. John feels that it’s his responsibility to look out for Paul, and maybe leaving would help him.

But John can’t bear to let him go.

~ ~ ~

John often wakes up to find Paul still asleep. Even though he knows it shouldn’t, it bothers him.

He remembers a time when Paul would make an effort to wake up before him, just to be the first one to say good morning.

Now John can barely remember the sound of Paul’s voice.

~ ~ ~

Neither of them have gone into the room where they store their instruments (honorarily called the Cavern) since the accident, although John has been itching to play his guitar. Neither of them have even mentioned it at all. Paul suspects that sometimes John turns the radio on when Paul’s reading, but he tries not to let it get to him. He feels responsible for John’s recent lack of happiness, and he thinks John should at least be allowed something. He says nothing about it.

Paul avoids even looking at the Cavern, lest he get any ideas.

But soon enough some twisted part of Paul brings him to the Cavern, some tiny, self-hating instinct persuades him to go in. John is at his side, as always, and Paul can feel his unease. But he has to do this, has to _see_ them again. The music, the guitars, the beautiful piano they bought together and the trashy, honky-tonk John bought straight after, just to make Paul laugh. They were once, he recalls, a very important part of his life.

Paul picks up his Höfner, looking at it longingly. He sees John moving toward him, watches his lips form the words _don’t, Paul_ , and John has such a sad look on his face, but Paul needs to feel the instrument in his hands again. He needs some sort of normality.

He sits down and plucks a string. He knows his bass well enough to know what the note will sound like. But no sound comes out, and Paul feels himself break. He plucks the string again, harder, and sees it vibrating without it making a sound. He feels a tear, large and hot, trace down his cheek. He looks up at John helplessly, and John’s eyes mirror the emotion. Gently, John takes the guitar away from him and places it back on its stand.

John hears the first sob before he turns around, and it breaks his heart. Paul is kneeling on the floor, his face in his hands, crouched in a fetal position, his chest heaving and tears pouring from his eyes, shaking and shaking and John knows he can’t do anything and he’s crying too.

He kneels down and puts his hand on Paul’s shoulder, because it’s all he can do, and Paul looks at him with a fury John can’t understand, face red, and screams, “Why are _you_ crying?!” and shoves him away. And John lets him, even though he feels like the last string between them has broken.

Because Paul doesn’t hear what John hears.

He can’t hear his own anguished sobs, but John can.

And it hurts more than anything has ever hurt before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tbc… comments are highly appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven’t read the first chapter, you should definitely read that first.  
> Also previously unmentioned info that is now important: George and Ringo live together in this story (gay? not gay? you decide).

 

John has been avoiding Brian’s calls.

John knows what he’s going to say. It’s been well over a month. They should have been done recording now, taking a break before their album release and their next tour. Technically, if they got into the studio now, they could stay on schedule.

That’s exactly what John doesn’t want to hear.

John doesn’t know if Brian would dare suggest going back into the studio without Paul, but the very idea makes John’s stomach twist. He knows Brian’s just looking out for the band, but… What about looking out for Paul? The episode with the bass, with Paul crumpled on the floor in hysterics, has shaken John so much he’s afraid he’ll never recover.

They haven’t talked much since then, he and Paul. Something broke that day, and nothing has been the same since. They don’t follow each other around anymore—it seems easier to leave the other alone. They barely touch each other, unless they’re holding each other to fall asleep. It’s not quite for comfort so much as necessity; it’s become second nature to sleep in each other’s arms.

Even that can feel empty. 

~ ~ ~

George and Ringo have stopped visiting, as per John’s request, but they’ll call every once in a while. John is half grateful to talk to someone, half resentful that they can live normally while he and Paul are barely talking. He doesn’t tell them this. He acts like he’s okay.

He knows George and Ringo aren’t stupid, though. He hears the concern in their voices when they ask if he wants them to visit, or if he’d like to come to theirs to write music or something. He hears their disappointment when he declines.

“I can’t do that to Paul,” he explains each time. “He wouldn’t enjoy it, and it’d feel like I was leaving him.”

“Yeah,” George will say. “I understand. Call us if you need us, though, okay?”

“You can come over any time,” Ringo will say. “Okay?”

“Okay,” John will say, knowing that it’s not.

“Okay,” they’ll repeat. A silence will follow. John can never remember who hangs up the phone first.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes John talks to Paul when he’s looking the other way. John tries to convince himself that things are normal this way; saying “good morning” when Paul wakes up even if it doesn’t feel good at all; asking him if he wants tea or coffee; saying “good night” before he turns the lights off. On some days, it comforts him to hear a voice in the apartment, a rare occurrence lately. On other days, it makes him more lonely. He wants to _force_ Paul to respond. He wants a reply, a sign, an acknowledgement—he wants _something_ , at least.

He always feels guilty after thinking that, but the thought comes every once in a while. He feels like Paul has become his cross to bear. He can feel the weight of it on his shoulders. He feels choked by the sadness in Paul’s eyes, and sometimes he has to look away just to take a decent breath. He watches Paul mope around the apartment, reading or sleeping or lying spread-eagled on the bed, staring at the ceiling blankly.

The first time John finds Paul like this, he tries to comfort him. “Alright?”

Paul shrugs, looking at him wearily. “Yeah, you?”

John doesn’t lie to Paul often, but he feels like since the accident he’s starting lying more than telling the truth.

“Of course.”

He smiles at Paul then, the effort astounding him. His face feels stiff—it must be a terrifying image. John strokes Paul’s cheek with his thumb and walks out, clenching his jaw. He hates himself for not being able to help, and he hates Paul for not letting him.

He drinks three bottles of beer that night, which isn’t a big deal. At least, it shouldn’t be. Not yet. John won’t let it get to the point he’s reached before with alcohol; he’s learned by now. He won’t let anything get out of his hands. Besides, he’s got Paul to take care of, even if it’s been getting harder and harder.

It does, however, feel a bit easier with a drink in his hand.

~ ~ ~

“I think they’re depressed,” George says to Ringo one day.

Ringo frowns, concerned. “Both of ‘em? John, too?”

The thought of it sickens him. Ringo can remember a time when the two of them were blessedly happy. It was almost obnoxious; John and Paul making doe eyes at each other during rehearsals; giggling like schoolgirls and holding hands when they thought no one could see; sucking each other off in the bathroom during breaks. He’d walked in on them once. Horrifying.

“He never wants to do anything,” George says. “He’s so wrapped up in Paul being sad that he’s made himself sad.”

Ringo looks thoughtful for a moment. “What do we do?”

George shakes his head. “Is there anything we _can_ do?”

Ringo can’t think of an answer, and the question hangs unpleasantly in the air.

~ ~ ~

Paul’s been writing lyrics lately. They’re not like his usual ones; they’re darker, sadder. Paul doesn’t know what to think about it. He doesn’t want to write sad songs. He likes writing silly love songs and classic rockers, not… whatever these are.

He’s been leaving the lyrics on scraps of paper around the house. Part of him does it because he’s not sure where to put them. Part of him wants John to read them. Part of him wants John to talk to him about them. Part of him wants John to leave him alone.

He’s sure John’s seen some of them. He never says anything, but Paul sometimes finds them in different places. He’s too tired to wonder why John doesn’t ask him about them.

Sometimes Paul doesn’t even know what he’s writing, just goes along with it. Strange things, about lonely people and mournful lovers and fools sitting on hills, trying to be heard. He feels like a character in a tragedy, slowly going mad with his affliction.

But worse than the sad, mournful lyrics are the _songs._ Paul has so many songs in his head—bits of melodies and middle eights and chord changes he wants to try—and no way to let them out. It’s been building up in his head, a pressure that needs to be released. He wants to hear _something_ , even for just a moment. Rain, or the phone ringing, or John breathing. He thinks maybe, if he could just hear _one thing_ , he might feel better.

The doctors said it could be temporary, Paul remembers. They said his hearing could come back at any time.

They also said he may never hear again.

~ ~ ~

It is not John’s intention to begin drinking again. In fact, that’s the last thing he wants. But John soon remembers how easy it is to drink more, feel less, and it starts happening more and more often. It helps him cope, helps him breathe easier.

He does it while Paul’s asleep, mostly. He doesn’t want Paul to worry—or worse, _protest_. Paul has enough to think about as it is. And besides, John’s doing this for him. John’s drinking to keep himself calm, to better care for Paul. It’s just a bit of help, that’s all.

He’s got it under control. A few scotches at night, a couple beers throughout day to tie him over, nothing he can’t handle. He won’t let it get bad.

He tells himself this every night as he pours another glass.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes Paul wakes up in the middle of the night and John’s not there. There’ll be a light in the hall, but Paul doesn’t follow it. He doesn’t really want to know what John does in the middle of the night without him. It makes him feel lonely.

So he goes back to bed and forces himself to fall asleep, and the next time he wakes up, John will be back. Sometimes he smells of alcohol, but Paul tells himself not to worry about it. He trusts John to take care of himself.

Paul feels a wall growing between them, but he wraps his arms around John anyway, once he’s back. He takes comfort in the fact that John still breathes the same way, even if Paul can’t hear it. John still curls his fingers in his sleep, often clutching at Paul’s shirt, and he still mumbles when he’s dreaming. Paul can see his mouth move.

Paul tries to let this reassure him—even if everything changes, this will stay the same. Even if he can’t hear, even if he’s sad all the time, even if nothing is the same ever again. He will always have John, even if everything changes forever.

He wishes nothing had changed at all.

~ ~ ~

John’s chest feels tight whenever he’s not sleeping or drinking. It feels like the air in the apartment is dead, like it’s been inhaled and exhaled for so long that it’s gone stale. Opening windows doesn’t help. He tries buying a plant—a big, leafy thing that he places on their bedside table, in hopes of giving the room more life. He tries sitting next to it, breathing, as if to see whether photosynthesis is a perceptible phenomenon. _Are you breathing too?_ he thinks as he waters the plant. _Can you breathe here?_

A few hours later, Paul hands John a notebook—the way they’ve taken to communicating—that says, _what’s with the plant?_

John takes a pen and writes, _I thought it might brighten things up a bit_.

Paul looks at him strangely. “Oh,” he says.

John wonders if he should have gotten flowers instead. _I can get rid of it if you want_ , he writes, but Paul shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says.

John drinks more that night. He can breathe fine when he does that, plants be damned.

~ ~ ~

“Do I make you sad?” Paul asks the next night. He looks at John’s mouth warily, like he positively dreads the answer. It’s a longer sentence than Paul usually manages these days, so John knows how much it must be bothering him.

He breathes out slowly and finds Paul’s hand, stroking worriedly. “You make me happy,” he says finally. It’s not a lie. Not really. Paul makes him happier than anyone else in the world.

“I used to,” Paul says.

It’s not a lie either.

~ ~ ~

John starts needing to drink more in order to feel okay. He can feel his control slipping, but he just wants to be able to breathe. If alcohol can get him there, then… isn’t it worth it?

John wants to support Paul. He wants to be there for him. But John feels like he’s dying here, in this lonely house, and he feels alone. He knows Paul feels alone, too. He doesn’t know how to help Paul, but he knows how to help himself.

He pours himself a drink and swallows. Takes a breath.

Not enough.

He pours another.

~ ~ ~

The drinking is starting to worry Paul. 

Yes, he’s noticed—how could he not? John’s been leaving at night more often, bottles have been appearing in their trash, John _stinks_ of it sometimes. He’s been hungover almost every morning, popping pills for his head and stumbling back into bed to sleep it off. He seems tense when he’s not drinking, and stressed when he is. Paul can only ignore something for so long. So the next time he notices John get out of bed, he follows.

John flicks on a light in the kitchen, gets out a glass and a near-full bottle of whiskey and walks into the Cavern. Paul’s not sure what shocks him more—the fact that John isn’t going out to get drunk or the fact that he’s been writing songs without him.

Paul can’t really blame him. Paul’s been going crazy being unable to write songs, and it’s unfair to expect John to quit as well. But he can’t help feeling hurt and abandoned. What’s John writing without him? He knows they don’t _need_ each other to write songs—he’s done it enough times by himself—but the process still feels better when it’s the two of them. They make each other better.

Paul watches John test a few chords before plugging into an amp and strumming a variation of the twelve-bar blues. Paul can see the chords he’s playing, can make the same shapes with his fingers. Paul aches to pick up his guitar and play with John, even just a stupid little blues to keep him company.

Why can’t he just do that? Why is John doing this without him? Is it really so unfair of him to expect John to stay away from the instruments while Paul has to?

Unfair is the accident. Unfair is being unable to hear, being unable to do the things he fucking loves because of it. Unfair is his boyfriend, leaving him in the middle of the night to drink and play music without him.

Before Paul goes back to bed, he takes a brand-new bottle of scotch from their pantry—fuck, John’s been keeping himself well-stocked for breakdowns like this—and pours the whole thing down the toilet. He wonders if it sounds as satisfying as it feels. A few seconds after he flushes, John appears at the door. “You’re up?”

“Can’t sleep,” Paul replies. He hopes he sounds exhausted. He _feels_ exhausted, with everything that’s happened. “Did I wake you?”

John rubs the back of his neck and yawns. “No, I was just getting a drink.” Paul didn’t expect John to tell the truth, but he doesn’t regret what he did.

“Are you gonna sleep?”

John nods. “Be with you in a minute.”

When they crawl back into bed together, Paul can smell the whiskey when John breathes against him. He almost says something, but he thinks better of it. Instead, he turns off the light and thinks about all the liquor in their pantry. He thinks about the bottles John’s been emptying and the bottle he emptied himself.

He can do it again. He knows things aren’t good between them, but John’s drinking won’t help at all. If anything, it’ll make things worse—and Paul doesn’t want to think about what “worse” might mean. Getting rid of it will help both of them.

He can do it again. And he will.

~ ~ ~

George gets a call from John at two in the morning. “I’m suffocating,” John says.

“What?” George asks, still trying to wake up. “What’s going on?”

John is breathing loudly—definitely not suffocating, George thinks—but he says, more insistently, “I’m _suffocating_.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t breathe here.”

“You need to calm down, all right? Calm down, deep breaths. In and out, okay? John?”

“I feel like I’m dying, though.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Yeah, I think so. I can’t breathe.”

“Do you need me to come over?”

John pauses. “No.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“ _No_ , I can’t _breathe_ ,” he says frustratedly, like he can’t figure out why George doesn’t understand him.

“Where’s Paul?”

“Asleep,” John says. “Better that way.”

“How come?”

“Cos he can breathe when he’s asleep. I see him when he’s awake, he can’t breathe either. He just sits there.”

There’s a crashing sound, and a muffled “fuck” on John’s end.

“John?”

“Yeah, I think I broke a glass.”

“John, do you need me to come over?”

“No, don’t come over. It feels dead here, you wouldn’t like it.”

“It… what?”

“I don’t like it either.”

“Why did you call me, John?”

“Just wanted to remember what it was like to feel alive again, y’know? Sorry. I think it’s late. G’night.”

“John,” George says, but the phone goes dead.

~ ~ ~

John knows he’s screwed when he wakes up with a pounding headache and Paul standing over him with a glass of water. The light, streaming through the window, is making his eyes burn and his head feel like it’s been split in half.  
“Time is it?” John mutters, voice gruff and low, wincing at how loud it sounds. 

Paul holds up ten fingers. Flashes another two.

Fuck, way to keep it under control, Lennon. “I—meant to wake up,” he says quickly, lifting himself out of bed only to sit back down as the room spins and his vision blurs. “Sorry, I must have…” He stops, because Paul’s already walked to the window to pull the curtains closed. He feels a pang of guilt at Paul’s care. _John_ should be taking care of _Paul_ , not the other way around.

You stupid fuck, John tells himself.

Paul glances at John, who’s sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, trying to get a hold on things. He puts a hand on John’s shoulder and pushes him gently back into bed. “Just sleep,” he says. Paul tries to make his voice come out calm, but judging from John’s expression, it must sound as irritated as he feels.

When he’s sure John’s passed out again, Paul goes to the cabinet and takes the rest of the whiskey—five bottles, expensive stuff—and pours the rest down the toilet. He watches it swirl away, clenching his jaw. He takes the bottles downstairs and leaves them in someone else’s trash.

Paul’s doing this for John. He’s doing it for _them_. If John wasn’t drinking so much, they wouldn’t be so _sad_ all the time. It wouldn’t feel all dark and cold in the apartment. Maybe they’d even _kiss_ once in a while. Paul can’t remember the last time they kissed, not for real. Half-hearted pecks on the lips don’t count.

If John insists on ruining their relationship with alcohol, Paul will step in. He’ll keep the two of them together, no matter what it takes. He’s doing it for them.

~ ~ ~

Paul watches John constantly the next day, knowing a confrontation is inevitable even if John hasn’t said anything yet. Watches him stumbling into the bathroom and retching into the sink; eating breakfast with shaky hands; making tea for the two of them and adding one too many sugars. Paul sees John glance into the pantry more than once, like he thinks the bottles will magically appear again.

Paul knows John’s going to be furious—in fact, he expects it. But John will understand, because he _has_ to. Because this is the only way their relationship will work. It’s the only way.

~ ~ ~

When Paul goes to take a shower, John turns the apartment upside down, searching. He must have left a bottle somewhere—the Cavern, maybe—the bedroom, the living room… by the TV? In the kitchen? He hasn’t _drank_ them all, it hasn’t been that long—has it? Has it?

No. He’d _remember_ , wouldn’t he? He’d have slept much longer than noon if he’d had that much. There were _bottles_ in the pantry. At least three, maybe four or five. John feels like he’s sweating more than usual. Fuck, he needs a _drink_. The bottles were there, right—right _there_ , but they’re not anymore _._ Were they _robbed_? What idiot robber would steal liquor and not their guitars, their records, their television?

When Paul gets out of the shower, John doesn’t consider asking him. What would he know of it? It’s better not to bother him, John thinks. But when he notices Paul watching him at dinner with a wary, careful expression, John frowns. And slowly puts the pieces together.

Who else could it be?

~ ~ ~

John pokes Paul with his finger, holding up a notebook. Paul can tell from the angry slant in his handwriting that John’s realized what he’s been doing. _You’re hiding all the alcohol,_ the note says. _I don’t know why but it needs to stop_.

“Stop drinking,” Paul says, and John looks infuriated.

“Why?” he demands.

“It’s pulling us apart,” Paul says. He can’t figure out why John can’t see that. They’re so _distant_ now.

“The _alcohol_?” John looks at him with something bordering incredulity. They stare at each other, frustrated and tired, until John says, slow and measured so Paul can understand him, “My drinking is not the problem.”

Paul feels like he’s been slapped. He knows what John is implying, and he can’t quite believe it. A million thoughts run past him but his mind can’t focus on any, so he stands there with his mouth open like an idiot as John stares back at him, cool and calm.

Paul’s hands tremble as he takes the notebook and pen from John and writes, _Are you saying this is my fault?_ because he’s not sure he can make the words come out properly.

John sags when he sees it, rolls his eyes and runs his hands through his hair. He starts saying things rapid-fire that Paul can’t understand. He sees bits and pieces: “just saying” and “not your fault” and “fucking tired”. Paul’s almost glad he can’t tell what John is saying. He’s not sure he wants to know. Finally John calms down and says, slower, “Is this working for you?”

Paul can feel the tears burning in his eyes. He wants to say _yes, of course it is, because I love you and you love me, and we’ll figure it out just like we always do, we will_ , but instead Paul just shakes his head. John nods at that, expecting as much, and he has such a strange look on his face. Paul wants to go to him, but he’s not sure what he would do. Touching each other feels like nothing now.

“Then… I’m going to go,” John says. It hits Paul like a physical blow, and for a moment it feels like he can’t breathe. John pauses, like he’s going to say something else, and Paul just looks at him, frozen, determined not to let the tears fall. He will not cry over this, even after everything, he _won’t_. He refuses to.

John seems to think better of whatever he was going to say, so he looks at Paul one last time and nods awkwardly, turning away. Paul squeezes his hand into a fist and clenches until his nails are digging into his palm, and he does not cry. He steadies his breathing and purses his lips and watches John walk out and he does not cry.

When the door shuts, he sobs.

~ ~ ~

George doesn’t expect to see John at his door, certainly not looking so lost. “John… Are you okay?

“Dunno,” John says, and enters, immediately heading towards George’s kitchen. “Have you got any scotch?”

“Yeah,” George says, following him. “What happened?”

John takes a glass from the sink and locates a bottle in George’s cupboard. “It wasn’t working out.”

George watches as John pours himself a generous portion and downs it in a matter of seconds. “John… have you been drinking a lot, lately?”

John looks at him with daggers in his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, all right? It’s _fine_ , I’m _fine_ , and I’ll drink however much I bloody well choose! It’s not my fault my house feels like a graveyard and everything feels like nothing and my boyfriend is…” John stops abruptly and closes his eyes. “It’s fucking hard.”

“I know, I know, it’s _going_ to be hard. I mean… we’ll get through it, though, won’t we? Somehow. We will. He might get better.”

“Yeah. He might not, though.”

George bites his lip and says nothing. John smiles at him ruefully. “See? You know it, too. I mean, where would that leave us? If he stays like this?”

“You’d still be together, though. Isn’t that what’s important?”

John looks up from pouring himself another drink. “Does it look like we’re together?”

“What happened, John?” George takes the scotch out of his hand, raising it out of reach when John makes a grab for it. John sighs loudly, slumping back in his seat.

“I feel like I don’t even know him anymore,” John says, soft. He gets up.

“Are you staying the night?” George asks, because he’s not sure what to say.

“Yeah,” John tells him, and lays down on George’s couch. “Problem?”

“No,” George says, even though he can’t think of anything more problematic. If John and Paul have split, whatever foundation they have left is going to crumble around them. It’s only a matter of time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc… Don't forget to tell me what you think!  
> 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part III of IV… yes, I’m adding one last part. Thank you to everyone who’s patiently and graciously waited for me to update, I know this is a ridiculous amount of time. You’re all incredible. I realized (thanks to an amazing insightful comment on livejournal) that I wasn’t going to be able to tell the whole story of SoYV in just three parts, so I’ve split it into four.

 

“How much did he drink last night?” Ringo asks George. They’re eating breakfast—almost out of cereal—waiting for John to wake up.

“He finished the bottle,” George says. “I think he’s been drinking a lot lately. He got upset when I asked him.”

“Yeah… fuck.”

“He’ll feel better soon, and then he’ll go back. They’ll figure it out,” George says.

“I know,” Ringo replies, sounding unsure. He never considered that John and Paul might split. They were always a team, always together. It had always been JohnandPaul apart from everyone else, even before they’d become romantically involved. That’s just the way it was. “We have to talk to him, though. About the drinking. He can’t start again.”

“I thought we would wait until this morning,” George says. “He did just leave his boyfriend over it, we could at least give him some time.”

“When he wakes up, though…”

“What when I wake up?” John emerges from George and Ringo’s guest bedroom, looking, for lack of a better word, like shit. His eyes are dark, his hair’s a mess. He’s still wearing the clothes from the day before.

“We want to talk to you,” George says, “about the drinking.”  
John groans, burying his face in his hands. “Are you fuckin’ _kidding_ me right now?”

George glances at Ringo anxiously. “John, we’re just worried about you. You’ve got a _problem_.”

This is clearly the wrong thing to say.

“I thought,” John says, practically spitting, “that you were my friends. I thought _Paul_ was my friend. Jesus _Christ_ , if you could all just _piss off_.”

Ringo stands up and grabs John’s arm before he can storm off. “John, sit. Now.”

John stops, looking him over. When Ringo takes such a tone with anyone, it’s something fucking serious and John knows it. John sits. “We _are_ your friends,” Ringo says gently, “and that’s why we’re worried about you. This is a _problem_ , and we want to try to help you with it.”

“It’s not—it’s not a _problem_ ,” John mutters.

“You finished that whole bottle last night by yourself. That’s definitely a problem. How much have you been drinking a day?”

“I don’t—I don’t fuckin’ know, okay? I just _was_ , it wasn’t meant to get bad again, it was just _hell_ in that fuckin’ house. You weren’t there, you don’t know—it was—I couldn’t _take_ it. I’m just… I’m so _tired_.”

“It’s okay,” George says, now sitting on the floor in front of John, looking up at him with worried eyes. “It’s okay now, we’re going to help you.”

“How?” John demands, glaring. “How are you going to help me?”

They’re silent for a moment. “We’re your friends,” Ringo insists. “We’re going to help you.” He know it’s not an answer. The truth is, neither one knows what to do with John when he’s like this. “We’re going to get you through this. I promise.”

“Yeah, whatever,” John says. He glances at Ringo and George’s faces and sighs heavily. “I suppose this means you won’t give me anything to drink?”

~ ~ ~

When John goes into the bathroom to put himself together, George and Ringo have a bit of time to figure things out. “Get rid of anything we’ve got,” Ringo says first, grabbing four bottles of beer out of the fridge.

“Anything?”

“Anything. Rubbing alcohol.”

“Jesus,” George mutters, but he loots their cabinets for anything with alcohol content. “Sleeping pills?”

“Better not risk it.”

After a few moments of searching they end up with a decent amount of bottles and six-packs on their kitchen table. “I’ll take ‘em down to Brian,” George says. He picks up a bottle of vodka, unopened, and considers it for a moment.

“Think maybe we should keep something?” he asks, but Ringo looks at him like he’s crazy. “The withdrawals, Rich. He’ll be in hell if we cut him off entirely.”

Ringo hands George their last bottle of scotch instead—ironically, a gift from John when they’d moved into the apartment. “Better keep him on what he knows best,” he explains.

“All right,” George agrees. “Be back in an hour. Don’t let him near that bottle til I get back though. Just—make him some tea.”

~ ~ ~

“He did _what_?”

“Just left. Crashed at our place,” George explains, bringing bottles from his car up to Brian’s apartment. “I’m not really sure what to do,” George admits.

Brian sighs, nodding. “I can imagine.” He has this look on his face, as though he was afraid something like this would happen. He takes a few bottles from George and brings them inside.

The silence makes George nervous. He’d been hoping Brian, if anyone, would know what to do. “Bri?” 

“Has anyone checked on Paul?” Brian asks finally.

“…What?”

“After John left, did any of you think to check on Paul?”

“Uh… no,” George says, feeling stupid. “We… we sort of had our hands full,” he explains feebly. What the fuck kind of friend is he? What with John leaving, the alcohol problem, and the overall craziness of the situation, George had nearly forgotten that Paul’s on the other side of this whole thing. And right now, he’s alone.

Brian seems to sense George’s thoughts and responds with fatherly disapproval. “Go on, then! Even without the accident Paul would be going crazy over something like this. Make sure he’s not beating himself up about it—and you know he will be.”

“Yeah,” George says, embarrassed. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“Don’t get swept away in all of this, George,” Brian advises. “We have to stay above it. That’s the only way we can help them figure it out.”

“I’ll try,” George promises. But he can’t help thinking that John hadn’t been able to stay above it all. George isn’t sure how to help without getting too involved. If he’s honest, George isn’t sure how to help at all.

But he’s going to fucking try.

~ ~ ~

At John and Paul’s apartment half an hour later, George knocks on the door three times and waits. He’s about to knock again before he realizes his mistake. He scolds himself as he gets the boys’ spare key out from the top of the doorframe. What’s wrong with him? Why does he keep thinking everything is normal?

“Paul?” he asks when he gets in. The apartment looks dark, lifeless. He knows John’s condition was clouding his judgement, but George can see why he’d been struggling. It feels like a prison here. George opens the curtains in the living room, watching the sunlight fill the space before walking into John and Paul’s bedroom.

Paul’s just lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Paul doesn’t notice anyone’s there until George walks over and touches his arm. Paul’s eyes twitch for a second before he looks up at George.

“Oh,” he says, voice hoarse. “Hello.”

“How’re you doing?” George murmurs. “It’s almost noon, d’you want to get up?”

Paul squeezes his eyes shut and shifts in bed. “Sorry,” he says quietly. “I couldn’t… I don’t know what you said.”

The detachment in Paul’s voice strikes George like a blow. He’s never heard Paul sound like that in his life. A dozen thoughts rush past him at once.

How could things have gotten this bad?

How could he and Ringo _let_ them get this bad?

How are they going to fix it?

“Paul,” he says, tugging the man into an upright position. “Are you okay?”

Paul just shakes his head, jaw clenching. “I feel like a corpse,” he says, watching George with dull eyes. “I feel dead.”

It feels so wrong. George has never known someone so alive as Paul. It hurts to see him so broken. George can’t find the words to say how sorry he is. He knows that somehow, they all have to fix things. “Paul,” George says, shaking Paul’s arm so Paul will look at him, “everything’s going to be okay.”

“Thanks, George,” Paul mumbles, voice hollow.

“No, I _mean_ it. I want you to take a shower, okay?” George feels like he’s talking to a child, but he might as well be—Paul’s not even paying attention. “Paul?” Paul nods, eyes focusing again. “Take a shower. You’ll feel better if you do something. I’m going to make you some tea. Okay?”

Paul nods again, still not moving. “Talk slower, though. It’s…”

“Yeah. It’s hard. I’m sorry, I’ll be slow,” George replies, trying to speak more clearly. “Go on now, okay?”

Paul disappears into the bathroom and George waits until he hears the water turn on. He locates a box of tea in Paul’s cupboard and puts the kettle on, all the while marveling at how blind he’d been. Paul had been going crazy here by himself. He’d just been _lying_ there. Would he have moved at all today if George hadn’t shown up?

George makes a promise, to Paul and himself. He’s going to do everything he can to help Paul feel comfortable with all that’s happened. And John. He’s going to make this right again, even if it means he’s got to be dragged down into the pain and sadness they’re feeling. He _will_.

Thinking of John in his ruffled shirt, George goes into the bedroom and loots around in the drawers for clothes he recognizes as John’s. He feels guilty for doing it behind Paul’s back, but doing it in front of him might be worse. George has never seen him so fragile. He finds an overnight bag in their closet and packs a few days’ worth of clothes.

Paul’s sitting in the kitchen when he gets back, hair wet and face a bit flushed. George touches Paul’s shoulder so he doesn’t spook when George sits down in front of him. “Have you eaten anything?”

Paul shakes his head.

George considers him carefully. “Don’t you think that would be a good idea?”

Shrug.

George steels himself, determined not to show Paul how terrifying his indifference is. “I’m going to make you soup,” he says, “and you’re going to eat it, okay? Can you do that for me?”

Paul sighs and watches him with tired eyes. “All right, George. Thank you.”

George is about to ask if Paul wants to do something while he cooks, but it suddenly strikes him: what _can_ Paul do? Can’t play guitar. Can’t listen to music or watch TV. Can’t sleep—that would make things worse. He doesn’t want to eat. He doesn’t seem to want to get out of the house, and anyway, what would he do?

“Do you have anything to read?” George asks him, turning around so Paul can watch his lips move.

Paul looks around, eyes lingering on the bookshelf on the opposite wall. “I can find something.” He sighs again and goes to the bookshelf, fingers tracing over the titles as he searches.

“All right, good,” George says, satisfied that Paul has something to keep him occupied for a few minutes. He needs to do something more than just mope around, trapped with his thoughts. If anything, Paul needs something to help him stop thinking altogether, just for a while.

~ ~ ~

John lasts a good two hours before the shaking of his hands gets too bad. He feels like someone’s taken a hammer to the back of his head. He can’t seem to string his thoughts together properly. Through the cloudy haze in his head, John can only think of the one thing that will make him stop feeling this way, and _fuck_ , he wants it.

“Ringo,” he implores. “Do you have anything to drink?”

“More tea?” Ringo asks pointedly.

“Ringo…”

“Water?”

“Ringo, c’mon, please.”

Ringo raises his eyebrows. “You get two shots for the day. You want one now?”

“ _Yes_ , Jesus, my head’s killing me.”

“Water’d help with that, I think.”

“I’m fuckin’ serious, Ringo.”

Ringo watches him with narrowed eyes. “Drink some water and tell me how you feel in two hours.”

John wants to scream. “Give me the fuckin’ bottle, you prick.” He feels the frustration rising in his throat. He clenches his jaw and wills his hands to stay at his sides. He doesn’t want to hurt Ringo. “Please.”

“Two hours,” Ringo repeats. John shudders, head pounding, and runs off the the bathroom to be sick.

~ ~ ~

“Is that for John?” Paul asks George, glancing at the overnight bag on the floor by the door. George hadn’t tried hiding it out of guilt, but he’d been hoping Paul would be too distracted to notice.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Is that okay? I don’t know when he’ll be coming back.”

Paul shrugs, looking down and stirring the cooling soup George had made him. “I don’t know either.”

George sits down at the table next to him. Paul lifts spoonfuls into his mouth, even if it’s just to make George happy. It doesn’t make him feel any better, although his stomach hurts a bit less.

George taps Paul’s hand. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

Paul nearly smiles at that, the very idea seeming foreign. “I dunno, George. I’ll try to be.”

“Cos I can stay the night, you know. If you want me to.”

Paul wasn’t expecting George to offer to stay. “It’s okay. I’ll be fine,” he says. He feels the words leave his lips in that strange, soundless way that he still hasn’t gotten used to, and knows _fine_ isn’t the right word.

He’ll _live_ is what he means. He’ll _survive_. As for being okay… Paul can’t even remember what it feels like.

~ ~ ~

The first night of real separation is hard for everyone.

Paul finds himself in bed, staring at the light switch on the opposite wall. On a regular night, he’d crawl into bed and fix the covers—John’s too lazy to do such a thing, but he’ll still complain if they’re not straight—and John would wait til Paul was finished, turn off the light, and crawl in with him, assuming his proper place at Paul’s side.

But not tonight.

Slowly Paul fixes the blankets. He gets out of bed and turns off the light with an unceremonious _click_. Staring at the empty bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, Paul decides it’s the last place he wants to be right now.

He ends up sleeping on the couch. It might be less comfortable, but at least there’s something for him to bump into when he shifts positions. It’s reassuring, in a way. Paul buries his face in his pillow and prays that when he wakes up, something will be different.

While Paul waits for sleep to come, John pleads with Ringo and George. Begs them. Just one, he says, it’ll be enough, just one drink.

“You’ve already had enough,” they tell him.

“I haven’t—I didn’t feel it, it didn’t _do_ anything… Rings, I’m not gonna sleep, c’mon…” He sounds distraught. “George… please, I need to make it—make it _easier_ …”

“John,” George says quietly, “it’ll be easier if you’re not gagging for a drink every few hours. That will make it easier.”

“Not _that_ ,” John snarls. “I don’t want to—” He cuts off, looking furious. “Why can’t you just fuckin’ _help me_?”

“That’s what we’re doing,” Ringo says, sighing. “Give ‘im one. Just to get him to fall asleep.”

George relents after a moment’s thought, getting the scotch out of Ringo’s bedroom and pouring a bit into a glass for John. He takes it gratefully, looking ready to down the entire thing before he realizes how little is there.

John swallows dryly, surveying the brown liquid. “Not gonna be enough,” he says quietly.

“Well, it’s that or nothing.”

John takes a sip, just touching the liquid to his lips. “Okay then,” he says. He swallows the rest, pretending it will be enough, that he won’t be tossing and turning till sunrise, mad with thirst. His throat burns, his head pounds at the thought of the sleepless night ahead of him. “See you in the morning.”

~ ~ ~

John’s nightmares are like hallucinations. Or maybe his hallucinations are like nightmares. They keep repeating, like a broken record, over and over and over and over and

He keeps screaming, but Paul can’t hear him. Paul keeps talking, not looking at him, and John can’t understand anything he says. When he tries to speak, it comes out as another scream, ripping through him, and he crumples to the ground at its ferocity.

Then Paul looks over at him, considering him for a moment, before turning and walking away. And John just keeps screaming until he feels like his ears are bleeding, and then the world splits in half and seems to swallow him and he’s underwater and choking for breath.

Then the scene resets and he’s back where he started and it happens again and again and again and he keeps waking up shaking, only to fall back into the same dream. He’s afraid the night might never end.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The first thing Paul thinks of when he wakes up is that he’s in the wrong place. Not the couch, though it takes him a moment to figure out where he is. He feels like something is missing. It’s not his hearing. Something just feels very, very wrong.

John.

Paul swallows thickly. Fuck, he has to get a hold of himself. He knows he does. He needs to focus on _feeling_ something again, he needs to focus on being able to get up earlier than noon, he needs to focus on being okay with all this. He can’t afford to be thinking about John.

The problem is, Paul can’t _stop_ thinking about John. Somehow he thinks everything might be different if John were here, that it would be easier to get up in the morning, easier to eat breakfast without hating every bite.

Paul knows how ridiculous that is. John hadn’t helped before, even if that wasn’t his fault. Paul knows deep down that this is a problem he has to fix himself. He just doesn’t know _how_ , and he can’t help feeling furious at John for leaving him alone in the middle of all this.

_Fuck_ , Paul just wants to feel like nothing is missing. Paul just wants to feel like things are okay.

Instead, he goes back to sleep until George visits in the afternoon.

George fusses over him again, making Paul eat and watching him with that same worried expression. Paul hates that expression. He hates knowing that George is only there to help, and Paul can’t seem to work up the energy to let him.

So he stares at George and George stares back, both of them wishing things could be different without knowing how to change them.

“I’m sorry,” George says before he leaves.

Paul just shrugs. “We’ll be okay.”

“I know we will. I hope you know that too.”

Paul nods, and George leaves him with a small smile. 

_Do I know that?_ Paul wonders as he sits down at the couch in front of a black TV screen. George seems to believe it. He should trust George.

But Paul has no idea how anything could ever be okay again.

~ ~ ~

The first thing John thinks when he wakes up is that he fucking needs to stop drinking. He can’t remember the last time he slept so badly, if you could even call it sleep. His head is pounding and he _feels_ himself wanting it, the blessed relief, but there’s no way John’s going to go through another night like that. Not if he can help it.

He almost caves when Ringo goes to take a shower and George is out. He finds the bottle in Ringo’s room and gets a glass. He pours himself a tiny, harmless little bit and stares at it. _It will help_ , he thinks to himself, watching the liquid swirl around the glass. _It will help everything_.

He knows it won’t.

Ringo finds John like that, sitting at the counter staring at the glass. Ringo looks about ready to take it out from under John’s nose—John sees that fear in Ringo’s eyes—but he doesn’t. “Do what you think you need to do,” Ringo says, stern.

John needs to get better, that’s what he needs. He knows that. “I don’t need it,” John says finally, taking a deep breath.

“Really?”

John nods. “Take it away, though. I didn’t say I didn’t _want_ it.” Ringo smirks at that, and pours the glass down the sink.

It’s progress. John’s head is still killing him, and he feels like he’s going to fall over if he stands up for too long. He gets a glass of water and heads back to bed, knowing that however small, it’s a step in the right direction.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“You want to do anything today?” George asks when John surfaces from his room the next morning. He looks a bit better, no longer sweaty or shaking. He finishes off the last of George and Ringo’s cereal and sits down at the counter with George.

“Like what?”

“You want to see Paul?”

John looks at George with an alarmed expression. “I… I’m not…”

George nods, sighing. “It’s okay. I didn’t think you wanted to. I was just checking.”

“You’re not judging me, are you?” John demands.

“No, no… of course not, John. I know it was hard for you to be there. You don’t have to go back until you’re ready.”

John nods, eating his breakfast and frowning. “I want to get better before I see him again,” he says.

“I think that’s a good idea,” George agrees. “Do you want to do anything else? Have you been writing at all?”

“No,” John says, finishing the milk in his bowl. “Not really. You know—Paul couldn’t play, so I figured it wasn’t fair if I did.”

“But it’s not fair if you have to stop too, is it?”

John pauses. “Guess not,” he says. “I started playing guitar a bit when… y’know, when I started drinking again.” John makes his hand into a fist and squeezes, flexing his fingers. “I really want another drink,” he sighs.

George watches him thoughtfully. “Are you gonna get one?”

John shakes his head. “No. You wanna try writing something? Maybe that’d help get my mind off things.”

“Yeah, sure,” George says. “You can use one of my guitars.”

“Have _you_ been writing at all?” John asks when George retrieves an acoustic for him.

George gives him a small smile. “A bit. Nothing’s finished.”

“Let’s hear ‘em, then,” John urges. “Maybe we’ll give you a single.”

George rolls his eyes. “Don’t tease me.”

“First song on the album, we could do that.”

“Really?”

“Only if your shit’s any good,” John adds, and George grins.

It feels good, holding a guitar that isn’t his, listening to a song he’s never heard before. It feels new and different, like a breath of fresh air. This is what he needs. For an hour or two, John forgets his drinking, his depression, his loneliness, and lets it go. Paul barely crosses his mind. And maybe right now, that’s a good thing too.

~ ~ ~

This time Ringo visits instead of George, bringing a bag of groceries. After re-stocking Paul’s fridge, Ringo joins him on the couch, where he’d slept again. “Hey,” he says, smiling gently at Paul like he’s a wounded animal. “How’re you feeling?”

Paul’s stomach feels cramped just trying to think about how he feels. “Dunno.”

Ringo considers him for a moment, a concerned look on his face. “Hey, Paul… You think you might want to go out today? Just to get a change of scenery?”

Paul knows Ringo means well, but he hasn’t been out in so long he’s almost afraid to leave. “Don’t know if it’s a good idea,” Paul says after a moment’s hesitation. He coughs, trying to get over the still-foreign feeling of talking.

Ringo just nods, seeming to understand. “It’s all right. It’s your choice, we can stay in. Do you need me to do anything?”

Paul feels almost like he’s let Ringo down for some reason. He doesn’t want to go out and feel… crippled. But he hates feeling like this, he hates feeling like nothing, and if Ringo thinks it would be good for him…

“Do you think it would help?”

Ringo nods. “I think so. You need some fresh air. Sunshine.”

“Okay,” Paul agrees.

Ringo smiles, clapping Paul on the shoulder. “All right, then.” He says something else that Paul can’t see and gets his jacket off the coatrack by the door. Paul follows him out of the apartment, trying to brace himself.

The walk to Ringo’s car is all right, Paul supposes. It’s nice to feel the wind and the sun, it’s nice to stretch his legs. It’s strange to slam a car door without hearing it, but Paul convinces himself to ignore it. It’s only a car door. 

He rolls the window down when Ringo starts the car, watches the buildings and the people and the paintings on the street pass by. He leans his head back and takes it in, the sight and the smell and the feel of the city. Hearing isn’t everything, he tries to tell himself.

When he glances over at Ringo, Paul realizes he’s been talking. His face growing hot, Paul nudges Ringo’s shoulder. “Sorry,” he says, “I couldn’t hear you.”

Ringo looks surprised, then guilty. “Fuck—I’m sorry, Paul. I just…”

_Forgot_.

“It’s okay,” Paul assures him, but he feels strange about it. He can tell Ringo’s embarrassed. Wanting to move on, Paul says, “Where are we going?”

“Thought we could go for lunch,” Ringo says. “There’s this great place nearby, nobody ever recognizes us there.”

Beatles, Paul thinks. He’d almost forgotten in the blur of the past few months. We’re the _Beatles_. People recognize us. People love us.

Paul realizes, as Ringo parks the car, that he misses it. Not just the music and the sounds and the performances, but the _people_. He misses the conversations, the socializing—he misses hanging out, just the four of them. He’s about to muster up the courage to say something about it, when Ringo points to a building and says, “There it is.”

Paul’s stomach drops when they get to the restaurant. It’s full of people, laughing and talking and eating and bustling around with food and plates and wine glasses and the scene looks so eerie without all those sounds that Paul feels like he’s in a horror film. He feels out of place. He feels _wrong_.

Ringo seems to sense his hesitation. He tugs Paul’s sleeve. “This way, c’mon.”

Paul feels like he’s in a trance as a waiter leads them to a table. He stares at the menu blankly, seeing words but not bothering to understand them. He feels panic settling into his chest and sets the menu down. Soon a man is standing over him and Paul blinks, looking to Ringo helplessly. “What?”

“Do you know what you want?”

Paul glances down at the menu again, giving an imperceptible shake of his head. “I’ll… have whatever he’s having,” Paul says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strange as it feels.

Then the waiter’s gone and Ringo’s mouth is moving again, saying something about George and Brian maybe, and Paul can’t help but feel like he needs John. He feels pathetic just thinking that, that John could make this better, but he does, and he can’t stop the thought once it comes. When food is set in front of him, he picks up his fork and stabs at something—some sort of vegetable—and puts it in his mouth without further examination.

Paul chews slowly, his throat thick. Every bite seems to take an hour to choke down, every breath feels heavy. Ringo’s watching him out of the corner of his eye. Paul doesn’t want to let him down, wants to be able to get through one fucking meal without breaking, but he—can’t.

He gets up suddenly, shoving his chair back. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, not looking at Ringo, “I’m sorry.”

Paul _feels_ like a wounded animal, leaving that restaurant, walking away urgently without looking back. The world blurs around him. He doesn’t know where he’s going, he just knows he can’t be in that fucking place a second longer. He doesn’t want to be anywhere.

Someone grabs his arm, and he turns. Ringo, looking worried. He starts to say something, but he sees Paul’s face and falls short. “Look,” he says seriously, “I’m sorry, Paul. Let’s get you home.”

Seeming to know Paul can’t figure out the way, he takes Paul’s hand and guides him to his car, parked a street down from the restaurant. Paul glances at him a couple times as Ringo drives to see if he’s talking, but the car ride is wordless.

When they get back to the apartment, Paul feels a glorious sense of relief at such familiarity, but he also feels an impending sense of doom, like a prisoner being returned to his cell. He looks back at Ringo.

“Do you want to talk about—”

“I miss him,” Paul interrupts, a sob tearing itself out of him. “Why’d I let him leave?” His chest heaves and then he can’t stop and soon Ringo’s sitting him down on the couch and Paul grabs onto him, nearly clinging, unable to let go.

They sit like that for a while, Paul sobbing as Ringo rubs his back soothingly, saying something Paul can feel but can’t hear.

When Paul’s chest stops heaving and he doesn’t have to struggle for a breath, Paul pulls himself off, wiping his cheeks with his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s all right,” Ringo says. Paul can tell he means it by the look on his face, and it helps a bit. _It’s all right, it’s all right_ , he reminds himself. _It’s all right, remember that._

“Thank you.” Paul is grateful that it was Ringo who came today, even if going to the restaurant ended badly. Ringo’s a good friend, a good person to be around if you’re feeling down.

But he’s not what Paul needs.

~ ~ ~

That day John and George wait for Ringo to get home with news. John thinks he can handle hearing about it this time. “How was he?” John asks when Ringo gets back. Ringo just gives him a dark look, walking into the kitchen without a word. “Hey, what was _that_ for?”

Ringo turns around to face him. “He’s really fucked up, John.”

_Oh_.

John feels his breath catch in his throat. He knows that, eventually, he’ll have to go back, that it’s only a matter of time, that soon he’ll be back in that fucking place and he won’t be able to breathe again…

“Fuck,” he groans, sitting back. “Fuck, I know he is. I didn’t—I don’t know how to help him, I just don’t fucking know how to help him. Fuck, I can’t go back there. I can’t go back.”

George puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “Look at me,” he says firmly, and John does, eyes wide and wild. “Listen. I know you’re scared. And I know it’s hard and I know you don’t want to feel that way again. But all those things you’re scared of, everything that’s hurting you—you can’t let them win. You’re letting them consume you. Do you understand?”

“I can’t just—how do I do that?”

“You have to let us help you,” George says. “Cos we will. We can take the load off for you, you know? We can help. And eventually, you can help yourself.”

“I can’t go back though. I can’t go back right now. Does that make me terrible?” John clenches his jaw. “God, I’m the _worst_ , I’m a fucking—”

“No, you’re not terrible,” George insists. “John. You don’t have to go back today. It’s okay.”

“Paul needs me and I can’t help him, I’m fucking worthless, that’s what I am,” John mutters.

“You’re still doing it,” George warns. “Just breathe right now, okay? Don’t worry about anything else, just breathe.”

John goes quiet for a moment, trying to convince himself to breathe normally. He shakes his head, face crumbling. “I—I can’t, it’s not…”

“Shh, John. Close your eyes. In and out, okay? That’s all you have to do. Just let it all go, just for now. Just… breathe.”

“Okay,” John says after a long silence. “I’m breathing.”

George smiles at him, a big, genuine smile. “That’s the first step, Johnny.”

John laughs hesitantly. “Yeah, but… now what?”

George glances at Ringo for a moment. “Now you can think about things clearly. You’re not worthless, and you don’t have to go back yet. Right now just worry about getting better. Because then you’ll be able to handle being—”

“Being with Paul, yeah,” John says. “I know. I’ll… I’ll try.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“We should find something for you to do,” George says the next day, once he’s satisfied that Paul’s eaten enough for breakfast. “Y’know, to keep yourself busy.”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees. He’s felt a little better since the day with Ringo. Certainly not better enough to go out again, but better enough to get up at ten instead of twelve. Better enough to put effort into talking to George. It’s a good better. “What, though?”

“Cleaning?” George asks. He glances around the place. “Might help.”

“Yeah, but…” Paul sighs. “That’s… work.”

George smiles at that. “All right, well—how about you organize the bookshelf? Might find something to read while you’re at it.”

Paul nods. “Okay.”

It takes him about an hour to take all the books off the shelves and put them back. Paul decides to sort by author, although he knows John will never be able to keep the books organized. If John comes back, of course. Swallowing that thought down, he goes back to sorting. 

Paul discovers that John has three different editions of _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_ and _Through the Looking Glass_ , each annotated with its own set of notes, highlighted passages, and sketches in John’s hand. Paul leafs through one edition for a moment, stopping to look at John’s drawings for the Walrus and the Carpenter poem, along with _Bastards!!_ written in red along the margin. Paul smiles at that, a bit sad, and suddenly he feels like he’s forgotten how to breathe.

Maybe he’s not quite ready to read John’s books yet. He puts the volumes on the shelf.

Paul finds a thick anthology of Shakespeare texts, which he’d picked up at a thrift shop a few years ago. He’d never really gotten around to reading it. He finds another book of simple meditations he’d gotten from George, a book of poetry from grammar school. Sifting through the books, connecting them to memories and conversations, it feels good. Paul may have forgotten what normal feels like, but this might be the most normal he’s felt in a long while.

When he finishes, he shows George his progress, feeling almost excited. George shares his enthusiasm. “Now you can actually find shit,” he says. “Look how nice it is!” Paul finds himself actually smiling back.

He feels a tiny weight off his back. He might be deaf and alone, but Paul can still do things. It feels silly, how organizing a fucking bookshelf is making him feel better than he has in ages, but it’s still an accomplishment.

George leaves early that day, because Paul doesn’t need him to stay. It’s the first night of being alone that Paul doesn’t feel lonely.

~ ~ ~

John can’t sleep. He hasn’t had a drink all day, and although he’s making good progress, he still feels like he needs to dull things a little bit. He keeps going over the things he said to Paul that day. He regrets _everything_.

_Is this working for you?_ Why had he even asked? Why did he force Paul to think about the question they both knew the answer to? Why didn’t he try harder, why didn’t he push more, why didn’t he say, _let’s make this work_? 

After another minute or so, John flings off the covers. No point in trying to sleep anyway.

The light’s already on in the kitchen when John trudges out of the guest bedroom. John finds Ringo sitting there on the floor, leaning against the cabinets, smoking a joint. He glances up at John and says, “You, too?”

“Can’t stop thinking about him. Why’re you on the floor?”

Ringo shrugs. “Better in case I fall asleep. ‘S not too bad, try it.”

John sits down next to him and takes the joint out of his hand. “Yeah, not too bad,” he agrees. He takes a deep lungful and hands it back, exhaling. “Why can’t you sleep, then?”

“Ah… me mind won’t shut off. Happens a lot.” Carefully, he asks, “Do you want anything to drink?”

“Nah, I think I’m okay.”

“Oh. Good,” Ringo says. He looks at John. “D’you wanna talk about it? Paul?”

John looks down at his hands, which for once aren’t shaking. “It’s stupid. I just… I want to help him so bad, but I can’t figure out how. I couldn’t even help myself without you and George holding my hand.”

“Why’s that stupid?”

“It just is, cos I just can’t do anything right. And, I felt empty there, but now that I’m here I feel empty again… it’s just a different sort of empty, y’know?”

Ringo hands him the joint. He says, “George thought you were depressed.”

John frowns, breathing in the smoke and letting it out. “Maybe we were. Maybe we still are. I can’t know, can I?” The drug is starting to hit him now, and some of the weight has started to lift. It feels nice, but not nice enough. “It felt like we didn’t even know each other, by the end of it.”

Ringo looks at him sharply. “It’s not the _end_ —what are you talking about? It’s a _row_ , John. You’ll make up soon. That’s how it works.”

“I’ve never moved out before, though, have I? This _feels_ like the end, Rich.”

“It’s not. I know it’s not. You do, too, you’re just too foggy to realize it yet.”

“I just feel like I did everything wrong. I’m just… I’ve got so much guilt, cos I can’t fucking help him. I want to help him _so bad_.”

“Yeah. That’s cos you love him, though. That’s good.”

“Yeah.”

They finish the joint together and lay there on the floor. They don’t say much, but somehow it’s enough knowing someone’s there. John likes the feeling Ringo gives him, relaxed and easy. He can really breathe around Ringo.

“Feeling sleepy yet?” Ringo asks after a while. His voice sounds sluggish and low, like he’s already starting to drift off. 

“Yeah, a bit,” John mumbles. Suddenly, he’s struck by how content he is right here, falling asleep on the floor with one of his closest friends. John hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been until now. He doesn’t just need Paul—he needs all of them, his family, and he’d been shutting them out the whole time. He lifts his head. “I missed you, Rich.”

Ringo looks over at him and says honestly, “You didn’t have to. I’ve been here this whole time.”

“Yeah,” John says. “I know that now.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It takes a week before John feels confident enough to go back.

He spent the first few days at George and Ringo’s trying to get a handle on functioning properly, but he spends the next few trying to prepare himself. Better himself.

Because he wants to be better for Paul. He wants to support Paul without dragging himself into such a dark place. He wants to help Paul out of whatever place he’s in.

John wants them to be okay, and he wants them to do it together.

~ ~ ~ 

After a week, Paul doesn’t know if he can take it. He feels better, sure; he can do things now, he can eat without feeling nauseous. He can go through a day without wanting to drop to the floor. And he thinks he’ll be okay, given his whole situation. Paul thinks he can manage, at least, given time to adjust properly to the reality of the situation. And as long as he has someone to lean on once in a while.

But he wants that person to be John. He’s glad George and Ringo have been visiting—it might be the only thing keeping him sane—but more than anything, he misses John.

He misses John holding him and talking to him and being there, only for him; John singing and laughing and frowning and grinning that crazy-eyed smile of his; John’s hair when he’s just woken up and his jawline in the morning, rough with stubble; John’s arse and his nose and his lips; John’s hands on the piano; John’s hands when he’s cradling his guitar, working through a new song; his hands when they’re on Paul, sure and steady and strong; John’s eyes, boring into Paul like he just _knows_ ; his blush when he wears his glasses; the warmth when he looks Paul’s way…

And _God_ , John’s voice.

~ ~ ~

“Are you going to see Paul today?” John asks when he sees George on his way out.

“Yeah,” George says. “You want me to tell him something?”

John shakes his head. George can see John’s holding his night bag behind him.“Can I go? Instead? I—I want to tell him I’m sorry.” John clears his throat. “And that I miss him.”

George smiles. “Yeah, of course you can. Are you—You’re going back for good?”

“If he’ll…” John looks down and changes his sentence. “Yeah. For good.”

“Okay,” George says, “Just—promise me, John, that you’re not going to let everything swallow you again. Don’t let it go that far, okay? Tell us if you need us. If _either_ of you need us. We really are here for you two.”

John smiles back. “I know that now. I know we’re not alone. Thank you. And… I’ll try.”

“I hope you two are okay,” George says, pulling him into a strong hug. “Please don’t leave us in the dark again.”

“We’ll be okay,” John assures him. “We all will.”

~ ~ ~

Of course, it’s easier said than done. It’s easier to be confident when John’s at George’s, far away from the battle site. Now, faced with the apartment again, John’s not so sure.

He wants to knock on the door. He doesn’t want to just unlock it and enter, after what he said to Paul. He doesn’t want to just _show up_. But he knows knocking is useless, so he sets his bag down and fishes for his key. He takes a deep breath, preparing himself for whatever’s about to happen, and opens the door.

Paul’s on the couch, back to the door, as John carries his bag in. “I’m home,” he says quietly. He says it for himself as well as for Paul; a promise. He won’t leave again. Unless Paul wants him to, John won’t leave his side.

He walks up to Paul and taps his shoulder, hands shaking.

Paul looks up, probably expecting George or Ringo. He exhales loudly when he sees John and suddenly he’s climbing over the couch to pull John into a tight hug. “Stay,” he says against John’s neck. “Please stay.”

John squeezes him in reassurance, and they remain like that for a long time. When Paul finally lets him go, John feels almost reluctant. “You don’t smell like booze,” Paul observes.

John laughs nervously. “Tried to cut back,” he says. He glances at Paul again, anxious, knowing he has to make things right before anything else. John coughs into his hand and says, “Listen, Paul… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, just—about everything, I know that was such a stupid thing to say—I was a fuckin’ idiot, I know, and… and I can’t believe I just left, I wasn’t _thinking,_ and I know it’s taken me forever to realize it but I was so wrong and I’m _sorry_.”

Paul looks at him and bites his lip, raising an eyebrow. John breathes out and realizes. “You didn’t understand any of that, did you?” John asks. Paul gives him a small smile and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” John says again.

“S’okay,” Paul tells him. “Probably babbling, as usual.”

John kisses him then, hesitantly, because the distance is still there and he’s not sure how to get rid of it. But Paul responds like he used to, wholehearted and firm, and it feels better than it had before John left. “I’m sorry,” John says.

“I am, too.”

“I love you,” he says.

Paul seems to hesitate at that, and that second of hesitation scares the hell out of John. Suddenly desperate, he takes Paul’s face in his hands, terrified of having ruined everything. “Baby,” he says, clear and slow, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry… I do love you. Please believe me. No matter what happens. I don’t care about anything else, just you.”

“Just me?”

“Just you.”

Paul puts his head on John’s chest, silent. John puts his arms around him, shaking slightly. Paul says, “I love you too.”

~ ~ ~

John notices soon after that Paul’s lost weight and starts to fret over him. “What have you been eating?” he demands. “Have you been?”

“When George or Ringo visited,” Paul says sheepishly. “Didn’t want to.”

“You can’t just not eat,” John scolds. “Go shave, I’m making you breakfast.”

Paul reaches up to touch the bristly hairs on his jaw. He watches John survey the fridge and get pans out of the cupboard. “John,” he says finally.

John turns, his movements slowing when he sees Paul still standing there. “…What?” he asks, looking concerned but a bit wary.

“I’m gonna try to do better,” Paul says, the words falling unplanned from his lips. “I’m gonna do better this time.”

John puts down the frying pan he’d been holding. “Paul…” John says, gazing at him with such understanding and love that tears sting Paul’s eyes. “Nothing that happened was your fault. I’m going to do better, too.” He holds his hand out for Paul to take and pulls him closer. “I’m never leaving you alone again,” he says.

“What if you get sick of me?”

John just shakes his head. “I’ll deal with it. Without the drinking,” he adds. John squeezes Paul’s hand. “I’m gonna try to do better too. I promise I will. Okay?”

Paul nods. He can’t quite believe he has John back yet, can’t wrap his mind around it. He feels shy and nervous, like John might change his mind and bolt again, and Paul has to force himself to trust him.

_Thank you_ , he mouths.

“You’re welcome,” John says.

As Paul begins shaving for the first time in days, he doesn’t think about the sounds he’s missing of John bustling around the kitchen. He watches himself in the mirror. _He’s back_ , he tells himself. _He’s back and he’s staying and maybe you can’t hear, but he’s staying and that’s what matters. And things’ll be okay._

For the first time in a long time, Paul allows himself to believe that.

~ ~ ~

That night is strange in that it feels both foreign and blessedly familiar at the same time. Paul fixes the blankets and John waits for him to finish before turning off the light and coming to bed with him.

They lay there in silence. Paul knows things won’t snap back to normal; he knows their problems haven’t been solved. Not yet. But he’s ready to have John back, and he’s ready to take on whatever problems happen next.

“I love you,” he says into the dark, and he feels John shift closer to him. Pressing his lips into Paul’s neck, John mouths his _I love you_ into Paul’s skin.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Paul says. I’m glad you’re back, I’m glad you still love me, I’m glad I have you now—forever. I’m glad not everything is ruined. I’m so glad. 

John strokes his hand through Paul’s hair and kisses his neck once more in response. He goes to shift his position back, but Paul catches him and holds John’s head in place, next to Paul’s, where it belongs. “Stay,” he says.

John stays. Paul trembles with relief at John’s presence, and at this moment he can’t bring himself to care that he can’t hear John’s breathing; he can feel it brush against him, he can smell John next to him, he can taste John’s lips still on his tongue, and if he tries hard enough, he can see John’s form next to him in the dark.

At this moment, it’s enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbc…  
> One last part to go! The finale of this long endeavor is already half-written and my goal is to have it completed before May. My life is crazy busy right now, so I’m hoping I’ll be able to finish for you guys in less than a month this time!  
> Again, thank you so much for reading and supporting me. It really does help! COMMENTS ARE LOVE.


	4. Chapter 4

 

It’s not easy, of course.

Paul still feels shaken when he talks. If he’s silent long enough, if the room is empty and the world stands still, he can almost convince himself that nothing’s wrong. But Paul wants the world to move, and he wants to talk more, for John. Paul prefers the pain of not hearing his own voice in his ears than the pain of John’s absence, and if talking will keep John there, he’ll talk.

So Paul tries to speak up more, tries to engage. He asks John how he is when they wake up, what he wants to eat for breakfast, tells him when he’s going to do something, even asks if John’s been writing anything.

“Yeah, I have,” John says, looking excited. “Wrote a few for you, while I was—” John falters for a moment. “When I was away. Think you’ll like ‘em, once you hear ‘em.” John smiles when he says this, and Paul trusts his confidence so much that Paul starts believing it.

Some days talking feels almost normal, like a simple switch has been turned off in his head, but most days there’s a dull ache in his chest when he opens his mouth.

Luckily for Paul, John has made adjustments of his own. He seems to be more comfortable with the silences, and although he responds to Paul’s attempts at dialogue, John doesn’t try to start a conversation without Paul’s assent. He tries to make Paul feel less alone in other ways. Sitting closer together, writing messages instead of making Paul watch him talk, touching him more, smiling more. It might seem a bit forced at first, but it soon becomes natural.

There are still days Paul wants to do nothing but lie in bed, when he doesn’t feel like moving for fear of the silence that will greet him when he leaves his room. John doesn’t leave him alone on those days. John lies in bed with him. He writes on their notebook, _Are you okay?_

Paul will shake his head, and John will write, _Do you want me to do anything?_ and Paul will shake his head. _Do you want me to stay?_ John asks. Paul will shrug, and John will open the curtains and make them some food and lie in bed next to him until Paul feels ready to eat something or for John to hold him. They stare up at the ceiling together, close but not touching, and Paul can feel the change inside himself.

He’s not cured of the lingering sadness he feels, but he knows now that he’s not alone.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes Paul wakes up before John.

And maybe he can’t hear John’s breathing or his first waking words, but after their week apart it’s enough to feel John at his side. It’s enough to know he’s there, to feel his warmth, feel his chest rising and falling. Maybe he can’t hear John’s mumbled “good morning”, but Paul can see his sleepy smile; he can kiss the words off John’s lips.

Sometimes Paul wakes up before John, and despite everything he misses, Paul still loves it.

~ ~ ~

Sometimes John wakes up before Paul.

Paul seems at peace when he’s asleep, and it makes everything—this terrible struggle to be better —feel worth it. Sometimes he feels that familiar ache in his throat, and he knows if he had a bottle in front of him he’d take it willingly. But looking at Paul, he knows his efforts are working. He knows he’s doing something good for that wonderful idiot sleeping next to him.

Sometimes John wakes up before Paul, and that’s okay with him.

~ ~ ~

Brian drops by out of the blue one morning. Paul feels a pit in his stomach, thinking it’s something to do with the band. That their careers are finished, that the wait for the album’s been too long, that the world has found a different British pop group to adore. Or worse. Paul’s had nightmares of Brian saying to him, “You’re out, we’ve found someone better, he’s better-looking and he’s better on guitar, and to be frank he sings a hell of a lot better too, so thanks for your time, but we don’t need you anymore.”

But Brian doesn’t come bearing news—he comes bearing canvases. Armfuls of canvases, some large, some small. Sheafs of drawing paper. Tubes of paint and an array of paintbrushes.

“I kept thinking about what George said,” Brian explains to John, carrying the canvases into their apartment, “that Paul hadn’t much to do except read, and I kept thinking, there has to be more than that. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this _sooner_.”

They’re both stunned, staring at this sudden collection of white on the floors of their home. Paul doesn’t even want to think about how much they must have cost, and he’s overwhelmed with affection for Brian. John seems a bit reserved about it until Brian rolls his eyes and says, “I didn’t forget you, either,” and presents him with a thick sketchpad and fancy ink pens.

“Thank you,” is all Paul can say, fingers trembling as he shakes Brian’s hand.

“You just work on feeling better,” Brian says, looking stern. “I’ll see you soon.”

Paul’s a bit tentative starting out on the first canvas. He chooses a small one, brandishing a thick paintbrush. John’s already broken into his pens, filling pages with strange scrawling doodles and cartoon figures. After watching Paul stare at the canvas for ten minutes, John passes him a sheet of paper. _Can’t figure out what to paint?_

“Don’t want to ruin it,” Paul says, still thinking about the possibilities.

John takes the paintbrush out of Paul’s hands before he can protest, dips it in red, and paints a thick, bold streak across the stark white. Paul glares at him, but John grins back in delight. “It’s ruined now!” he says gleefully. He gives the paintbrush back to Paul. “Go on… ruin it more.”

Paul does. It’s more freeing than he imagined. Deliciously satisfying. He hasn’t been able to really _create_ something—something tangible, something beyond words—in so long. He feels his mind really working again.

“Happy today, are we?” John asks when Paul comes to sit on the couch with him, beaming.

“Yeah,” Paul says. It feels brilliant, fresh. Almost unfamiliar, but not in a bad way.

John kisses him. “Good.”

~ ~ ~

Ringo and George visit more often, as per Paul’s request. John feels guilty for keeping them away before, not knowing how helpful they would be just by sticking around. But that’s past them now, and they know Ringo and George aren’t going anywhere. It feels so much better knowing that the rest of their friends—their family, really—are still there.

Sometimes Ringo and George will simply drop by to check up on them, to say hi, but other times John and Paul will attempt to cook something special for dinner and they’ll all sit around the tiny dining room table and laugh at how bad—or, sometimes, miraculously good—the food is.

They don’t listen to music like they might’ve before, but they do other things that seem just as important. They talk to each other—sometimes out loud, talking slow for Paul, but sometimes passing notes like schoolboys. Paul has a pile of scraps on his dresser now, all the conversations they’ve had on little pieces of paper. They comment on Paul’s paintings, which now hang on nearly every wall of the apartment. Sometimes, they lay out a big canvas and paint it together.

They play a lot of Monopoly—far more than Paul could usually tolerate. But it gives them a chance to be together. It’s this that Paul’s missed, almost as much as the sounds. He’s missed these boys, _his_ boys, with their cheeky smiles and wild eyes.

As days go by, Paul feels _better_.

~ ~ ~

John wakes up with a hand pressed to his his throat.

He jerks up, muttering, trying sleepily to fend off the attacker, but he finds it’s only Paul, looking at him with a curious expression.

“What?” he asks, a bit choked.

“You were talking.” Paul has this look on his face—not quite hope, but something close to it. Excitement. “I could feel it. Talk again.”

“What d’you want me to say?” John asks, feeling awkward. He’s not sure he likes talking with a hand pressed against his Adam’s apple, but he’s willing to give it a try if Paul keeps looking excited instead of sad.

Paul leans back, breaking into a smile. “I can feel it when you talk.”

“Is it… can you understand me?”

Paul shakes his head. “Just feels funny.” He leans down and presses his ear to John’s chest. “Again,” he mumbles.

“Okay,” John says, a bit self-conscious. “I dunno what you’re trying to achieve, but… Okay. I’m talking.”

Paul hums thoughtfully, coming back up to kiss him on the mouth. “Well?” John asks. “Any good?”

“Better than nothing,” Paul replies, but he looks pleased.

~ ~ ~

Later that week, Paul tries to go into the Cavern. John grabs his arm, almost forcefully, fearing a repeat of his previous episode. John doesn’t think either of them can take that. But Paul just looks at him, reassuring. “It’s okay,” he says. He grabs his notebook from the counter and writes, _I want to see if I can feel the music. If I turn it up loud enough, I’ll feel the vibrations_.

John looks worried, but he says, “I love you,” and Paul smiles.

“You, too.”

John has to put on earplugs, it’s so loud. The apartment had been soundproofed long ago; the result of loud, late-night songwriting sessions and the sex that often followed. It turns out to be quite useful today.

And Paul _must_ feel something, because John certainly does. He can feel the apartment buzzing under his feet with every note Paul hits. His teeth are fucking rattling, it’s so loud. It might be sound-proof, but John thinks the whole building might be shaking. But he decides it’s worth the risk if Paul can play a while.

Paul plays through a few songs on their setlist, near flawless, then begins fiddling with some new lines, experimenting with the vibrations of the different strings. John tries to read or watch TV, but nothing can compete with the soul-rattling sound of Paul’s bass, so he eventually sits on the floor and watches Paul work.

He looks alive. Even if he can’t hear, Paul looks connected to his instrument, like he was born to play that one violin-shaped Höfner. John thinks he was. That’s how he knows Paul will get better. Paul was born to play that fucking guitar, and nothing in the world could keep him from it.

Paul tires out after about an hour of picking and playing—he even tries sitting on the amp, but the sensation is too strange and John keeps laughing—and joins John on the floor, sitting cross-legged across from him.

“How was that?” John asks, taking out his earplugs.

Paul smiles when he sees them. “Too loud for you?”

“There’s no such thing as ‘too loud’ when it comes to rock ‘n’ roll,” John tells him, even though his ears are ringing. Paul scoots closer and kisses him slowly, his hand coming up cup John’s face.

“No idea what you said,” Paul tells him softly.

“Mmmmm,” John says instead of repeating himself, and Paul grins.

~ ~ ~

Paul opts to do the shopping this time instead of John, who’s been doing it since the accident. A week or so ago, such a simple task might have been impossible, but now… Paul feels ready. He feels much more prepared to face the world than he had the last time. He feels like this is something he can do, _finally_ , and he wants to do it on his own.

John doesn’t like the idea. “Are you sure you can go out alone?”

“Deaf, not blind,” Paul reminds him. “I’ll be fine.” He’s confident that he can do this, although he does understand John’s worry. “You can come look for me if I’m not back in half an hour.”

It feels good this time, being outside. It’s not the nicest day out; a bit blustery with a gray sky, but it still feels good. It feels good to feel something. Paul stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks to the store, taking in everything he can without worrying about what he can’t hear.

He sees a mother and daughter walking hand in hand across the street. He smells the warm scent of bread from the bagel shop across the street, and thinks he might stop by on the way home if they haven’t closed by then. He feels the wind blowing against his face.

There’s a strange feeling of calm when Paul’s at the store, which is a normally loud, busy place. There’s no sense of hurry-up, no sense of urgency. Paul almost likes it. He puts the things he thinks they need into a basket and walks back to the front of the store.

There’s a corkboard on the wall by the checkouts, where locals are allowed to post what they please. Paul glances over the adverts, having always been fascinated by the lives of the people around him. Someone’s lost a dog—Sally, Dalmatian, three years old. Reward. There’s a German tutor in town. Someone’s willing to do odd jobs for low wages. Someone’s offering guitar lessons. Paul stops at the one, studying the ad and thinking back to when he was the one learning. When he’d travel an entire day just to find the bloke on the other side of town who knew a new chord. Paul’s eyes fall on the sheaf of brochures pinned next to the guitar ad: _Learn British Sign Language_.

The notion of learning sign language has never crossed Paul’s mind, but he finds himself reaching for the brochure on impulse. _Learn to communicate with your loved one… Private lessons come to you… Sessions last one or more hours_ … _Groups welcome… Cost varies._

Paul folds one of the brochures and puts it in his pocket, a flicker of excitement in his chest. Sign language. Communication without sound. It could work, if Paul can get the rest of the boys on board. And he knows he will.

Paul goes to the checkout and hands his groceries to the man working there. The man says something, and after a moment’s hesitation Paul says, “Pardon?” The man repeats himself and Paul watches his mouth carefully this time.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Paul says, and the man nods, smiling at him the way most people in customer service jobs seem to. Paul is buzzing with the idea of communicating without having to talk. Without having to watch people’s lips to understand. Being able to look at their eyes instead.

Paul walks back home, fingering the brochure in his pocket. The whole thing is still strange for him, but this feels like an answer. A real solution.

A new possibility.

~ ~ ~

John’s at the door when Paul gets back. “Where were you?” he asks, looking flustered and worried.

“Shopping,” Paul says.

“You’re ten minutes late, I thought…” John doesn’t finish.

“What?”

John shrugs, calming down as he realizes that Paul’s there in one piece. “Were you okay?”

Paul nods again, handing him the bag of groceries. His hand goes to the brochure in his pocket and his stomach flutters nervously. He takes it out and smooths the paper, waiting for John to finish putting the groceries away.

“What’s this?” John asks when he sees it. Paul hands it to him. “British Sign Language?”

Paul watches John’s face as he skims through the brochure, frowning. “I think we should take lessons,” Paul explains after John continues to say nothing.

John looks at him incredulously. “What? Why? What are you talking about?”

Paul stares at him. “If you haven’t noticed, John, I can’t _hear_.”

“You’re going to get better, though. This is—this isn’t permanent. The doctors said.”

Paul can’t quite believe his reaction. John’s positivity has helped him significantly through the past few days, but there’s a thin line between positivity and blind hope. Paul thinks he can be okay now, no matter what happens. Even if he stays this way, he knows he’ll survive, and John needs to understand that too. “John, they said it might be permanent, too.”

John clenches his jaw. “I don’t think it will be.” Paul can see it in his eyes. John doesn’t want to accept what might be the inevitable.

“And what if it is?”

John’s mouth is set. “It’s _not_.”

“Because you think I’m going to get better?” Paul asks. “Or because you don’t want to believe I won’t?”

John looks hurt now. “Why are you giving up so easily? You have to _want_ to get better.”

Paul nearly laughs at that, sickened by the turn this has taken. He’d thought John would be all for this, especially if this would help them communicate better. Easier. “You think I don’t want to get better?”

“You’re not acting like it!”

Paul takes a deep breath, staring into John’s narrowed eyes. “Every time I talk to you it feels like a fucking dagger in my chest, and you think I don’t want to get better?”

John just sits there, face crumpled like the brochure. Paul sees the unspoken words on his face, but John remains silent. Finally, John stands up and says, “I’m sorry,” and walks toward the door.

“Don’t you fucking leave again!” Paul snarls. He wants to fucking _scream_.

John turns to face him pointedly. “I won’t,” is all he says, and then the door is closed and Paul can’t believe this has happened again.

~ ~ ~

John returns two hours later, after Paul has spent twenty minutes crying in the shower, an hour covering a canvas with dark, angry brushstrokes, and another half an hour staring at the wall, hating the whole situation.

Paul glares at John, still hurt and angry, and holds up a page in his notebook that reads in huge, angry letters, _WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?_

“I’m sorry,” John says, pushing the notebook aside. He looks like he means it. “You’re right. Of course you are. I keep forgetting how hard this is for you, and I’m sorry.”

Paul wants to point out that John can’t be _that_ sorry, since he hasn’t brought any flowers or chocolates or cheesy cards, but then John puts a folded scrap of paper in Paul’s hand.

Paul opens it to reveal blue writing in Brian’s hand: _Thursday, George and Ringo’s, 9:00. Mr. Lafayette. Arrive ten minutes early._

Paul shakes his head, looking up at John.

“I talked to Brian. We’re learning sign language, all five of us.”

Paul frowns down at the paper, then back up at John. “Really?”

“I love you so much, Paul. If this is what you want then I want it too. I don’t want you to talk if it hurts that bad. I want you to be happy.”

Paul laughs, throwing his arms around John’s neck. “Thank you.”

John pats Paul’s back, burying his nose in Paul’s shoulder. Paul feels John’s breath warm his skin and know’s it’s a _you’re welcome_.

“You’re a fuckin’ dick, though,” Paul says, pulling away. “Hope you know that.”

“Yeah, I know,” John admits, looking concerned. “Do you still love me?”

Paul sighs, thinking about all John’s put him through. “Can’t seem to stop.”

~ ~ ~

Three days later, John and Paul, joined by George, Ringo, and Brian, have their first four-hour-long sign language session. The tutor, a thin, balding Frenchman, was paid triple his normal fee just to keep quiet about the Beatles taking lessons. Brian tipped him an extra twenty for coming on such short notice. It’s taxing but thorough, and after they finish, Paul feels excited.

He still harbors a shred of hope that his hearing will somehow pop back, but this could be a more realistic solution to one of his biggest problems. With the little vocabulary they’ve learned, Paul can have a rudimentary conversation without using his voice too much.

John, while seeming frustrated at times, seems to be making a genuine effort to learn as well. Once the tutor leaves, Paul signs him _thank you_ and kisses him, smiling. He knows communicating without talking will really help him.

They have three more four-hour sessions and a few shorter sessions over the course of the next seven days. The tutor takes a holiday after such a dense week of teaching, and the boys go their separate ways for the weekend.

Paul can’t stop thinking about it, how unfamiliar it feels to talk with his hands instead of his mouth. It fascinates him, the way the language changes with sight instead of sound and how certain signs can mean different things.

John and Paul are both exhausted when they get back late from the Friday session. Paul feels all right as they eat dinner, but he notices John looking a bit more than just tired.

“John,” he says. He signs, _How are you?_

John shrugs and puts his arms out for Paul to come. Paul puts an arm around John’s shoulder. _How are you?_ he signs again, because he doesn’t know another way to say it.

John thinks about it for a minute, then mimes drinking out of a cup. “Really want a drink,” he explains. Paul’s mind clouds with worry, immediately thinking about the bottles he’d gotten rid of. Had he gotten rid of everything, or was there something left somewhere around the apartment?

John smiles, seeing Paul’s face, and shakes his head. “I won’t,” he promises. “I just want to.”

Paul nods. _I love you_ , he signs. “Tell me if I can help.”

_I love you_ , John signs back. _Thank you_.

They go to sleep that night knowing that somehow, things will work out, and that they’ll both be okay.

~ ~ ~

John can hear Paul crying in the bathroom before he even fully wakes up. His first instinct is to run to him, find out what’s making him cry and beat the shit out of it. 

Then he remembers it’s not that simple.

So John hesitates. A voice in his head says, _Go to him, you coward_ , but he’s afraid to. He’s afraid of what he might find there. He doesn’t want to find Paul crumpled on the floor, bawling his eyes out again. After all they’ve been through, John doesn’t know if he can take any more.

But still… he doesn’t want Paul to be crumpled on the floor, bawling his eyes out, _alone_. John forces himself out of bed, angry at himself for the momentary lapse.

The door’s closed. Again John wants to knock, ask if Paul’s all right without invading, but he knows that’d be no good. He opens the door.

Paul’s sitting in the shower, naked and soaked, head in his hands. He looks up, his face blotchy and red, and gets up shakily. “Oh my God,” he says, hiccuping. “Oh my _God_ …” He stumbles out of the shower and throws his arms around John’s neck. John holds him tightly, stroking his watery back.

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay. I love you so much, all right? It’s gonna be okay.”

Paul fucking _sobs_ at that, and he looks at John and  says , “I can fucking _hear_ again, John,” and continues sobbing on John’s shoulder until John figures out what he said.  
“W-what? You can—what d’you mean, you can hear again?” John pulls away, grabbing Paul by the shoulders and holding him there. “Paul!”

Paul chokes out a laugh. “I just—I turned the shower on, and it felt weird, y’know… I could feel it on me, like normal, but it just felt different and I couldn’t tell why, so I just made a little noise in the back of my throat, and—and I fucking heard it, and…” Paul laughs again, and John wipes at his tears and grins back stupidly, completely stunned. Paul buries his face in John’s shirt, his wet hair against John’s neck. “God, I missed you… _so much_ ,” he says.

John nearly starts crying at that, euphoric, but Paul doesn’t seem to notice because suddenly they’re kissing and nothing else seems to matter.

“I missed you too,” John says finally, and Paul groans against him and moves down to mouth at John’s neck.

“Don’t stop talking,” Paul says, sounding a bit delirious. “Never _ever_ stop, I want you to talk til you fucking can’t anymore… _John_ …”

John laughs, feeling genuinely happy for the first time in a long time. “I’d run out of things to say, wouldn’t I?” he says, and Paul just grins at that.

“I don’t think that day will ever come, Johnny.”

“What day?”

“The day you finally shut up,” Paul says, pulling John’s shirt over his head.

“Hey—it’s hardly even seven, c’mon,” John protests feebly, but Paul makes a growling noise in his throat and tugs John’s pants down. “Paul—really, _now?_ ”

“Gonna make you _scream_ ,” Paul says, nonsensical, pulling John into the shower with him. “I’ve been feeling to your fuckin’ throat vibrating for how long now?”

“Hey, I thought that was better than nothing, wasn’t it?”

Paul fists John’s cock, already half hard, and John groans in spite of himself, squeezing Paul’s arm. Paul laughs and kisses him. “Oh, no, it fucking wasn’t. You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve missed the sound of your voice.”

~ ~ ~

It turns out that Paul won’t shut up either after that; the whole day all he wants to do is talk and hear John talk back. He keeps saying, “Say something,” to which John will respond, “What?” and Paul will huff and John will have to say the first thing that pops into his head, like “I’m glad you’re back, you know” or “I don’t know what to say, Paul!” or “I swear to God if you tell me to say something again—go watch telly or something, Jesus.”

But John is just as excited as Paul, and they can see it in each other’s eyes. The bursts of joy Paul gets from not only hearing his own voice but _John’s_ , too, are almost too much for him to handle. He keeps laughing out loud from the sound of everything, then laughing at the sound of his laugh. It might be annoying if it wasn’t so endearing to watch, and it makes John crazy with affection.

They go out for dinner, and this time Paul’s chest is filled with relief at all the sounds that fill his ears. “Think we should invite George and Ringo?” John asked before they left, but Paul frowned and said, “I’m not sharing you yet.”

They spend a while walking around town after that, listening to everything. They encounter a fan or two, a few shy, excited girls who thrust papers and pens toward them and stutter out words of praise. Paul grins at them, and when one asks how he’s doing, he says, “I’m doing great, how are you?”

They can’t hold hands outside—or at least, they shouldn’t—but on the way home John squeezes Paul’s hand anyway and says, “I’m proud of you.”

Paul squeezes back. “I’m proud of me too.”

~ ~ ~

That night, when the initial shock has faded, Paul starts thinking about—no, _worrying_ about—what will happen now that everything is the same again. Same, but… different.

“John,” he begins.

“What is it?”

“We need to talk, you know.”

John rolls over to face him, concerned. “What about?”

“Well… everything.”

John just looks confused. “What about everything?”

“John, we can’t act like the last month didn’t happen. We can’t act like we didn’t… split up.”

Almost instantly, Paul can feel John’s countenance change, his expression becoming guarded the way Paul knew it might. John doesn’t like dwelling on problems once they’re over. He doesn’t like thinking about what the problems might mean for them in the long run. “You know we need to talk about this.”

“I know,” John agrees softly, stroking fingers against Paul’s shoulder. “I know we have to talk about it, but do we have to do it now? I just got you back.”

Paul shifts away. “No, no, we _do_ have to do it now. Avoiding it won’t help.”

John frowns at him. “Fine. What… what about this month do you want to talk about?”

“You, you sort of.” Paul clears his throat. “You left.”

John looks pained. “I… I know, Paul. I’m sorry for that. I told you I was sorry. I know that was stupid and I know it was a mistake. I never should have left you alone. I know that.”

Paul knows he’s telling the truth. Paul knows he really is sorry. But somehow that’s not enough, with all the heartache it caused him. “Yeah, I know you know.”

“And I’m sorry about last week. I’m sorry I keep blaming things on you. You’re so much stronger than me, I don’t—I don’t know how to handle these things. I’m trying, though. I really am. I’m sorry.”

Paul breathes out a sigh, reassured. “It’s okay.”

John touches Paul’s cheek. “Go on, I know you’ve got something else. I can see you thinking.”

“I mean… just, this. All of it, it might be a temporary thing. Some switch in my brain just turned on again, so we don’t know if—or _when_ —it might turn off.”

John studies Paul’s face for a moment, chewing his lip. “I know you want me to think realistically about this,” he says, voice slow and thoughtful. “But this is the first time in months that things have been… you know—like _normal_. Can’t we be happy about that?” Paul opens his mouth to protest, but John continues, “Yeah, it might not be permanent. And maybe you’ll stop hearing again. We can be prepared for that to happen—and we _are,_ we know how to deal with it now. We can still learn sign language. We can work it out, I know we can. I just don’t think we need to worry about that right now. I have you _back_ , babe. Let’s just make the best of what’s happening _now,_ okay?”

Paul nods slowly. “Yeah?” John asks. “Is that a good idea?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

John gives him a quick kiss, smoothing his hand across Paul’s forehead. “I love you, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I know. I love you too.”

“I know I haven’t been one hundred percent supportive of everything since the accident, and I’m sorry. And I’m sorry about leaving you alone. I’m sorry about making you _feel_ alone.”

“You didn’t make me feel alone,” Paul assures him.

“Maybe not, but I didn’t help you feel less alone. And I’m sorry about that.”

Paul moves closer to him, resting his head next to John’s cheek. “You tried your best.”

“I should have done better,” John murmurs, and Paul can see John’s getting guilty again. He touches John’s chest.

“You did the best you could,” Paul says firmly. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, John. Stop beating yourself up about it, okay? You’re here now.”

“I’m sorry I started drinking.”

Paul laughs. “Yeah, that _was_ a shitty decision. I’m glad you’re better, though.”

John smiles at him. “I’m glad we’re both better.”

~ ~ ~

They spend almost an entire day relearning each other’s bodies and the _sounds_ —all those beautiful, blessed sounds—that they can make together. They fall asleep on the couch that afternoon, far too exhausted and content to move another muscle.

John’s throat is raw and sore by the end of it, and he guesses Paul’s is too, but they don’t mind. Both of them were practically dying to hear each other after months of silence. John coaxes some of the most magnificent sounds out of Paul that day.

He finally feels alive again. He feels his heart pounding in his chest and the blood rushing all through his body and Paul on his skin and he can’t get enough of it.

He can _breathe_.

~ ~ ~

Paul spends the next day phoning practically everyone he knows, chatting about God-knows-what. He talks to George for over an hour, to Ringo for nearly as long. He talks business with Brian, wanting to know how much this month-long break will affect their schedule and when they’ll get back to the studio and how has everything been going?

John starts to get a bit irritable when morning fades into afternoon and Paul’s still on the goddamn phone. “Done yet?” he asks, glaring at his boyfriend.

“Shhh,” Paul responds. John huffs at him and collapses on the couch, watching him talk.

When he finally hangs up after what is surely an hour, Paul walks over and lays his head in John’s lap. He heaves a huge, exhausted sigh and takes John’s fingers, guiding them through his hair.

“What are you, a cat?” John asks, petulant. Paul just grins. John softens at that, and begins stroking. “What is it?”

“I am so happy,” Paul says. John has to be okay with that, and they beam at each other for a moment, relishing in it together.

It’s an amazing feeling.

~ ~ ~

That night they have a long-awaited reunion with their instruments. They pour over the lyrics and bits of songs they’d written over the past month or so, composing melodies and critiquing each other’s work.

Paul panics a bit in the beginning: “John, I can’t find—the lyrics and stuff I’ve been writing, I can’t find ‘em. There was some good stuff there, I think…”

John just laughs. “Yeah, you’ve been leaving them all over the place. Y’know you left a little scrap in the fridge, next to the butter?”

“Yeah, but where are they now?” Paul asks, worried.

“Don’t worry, I’ve been saving ‘em. There _is_ some good stuff. Thought of melodies to some of them yet?” He goes into their bedroom and retrieves a handful of miscellaneous bits of paper, handing them to Paul ceremoniously.

Paul sifts through the stack. “I have a few ideas, but… y’know. Couldn’t really test them out, could I?”

“You can test ‘em now,” John says. 

So they do just that. There’s one melody Paul has heard in his head for a long time now, and he’s practically giddy that he can finally get to the piano to play it out. With the help of some of his best lyrics—a nice little poem called “Yesterday”—he writes the song in under half an hour.

“Like that one,” John says, handing him a cup of tea. “Very… ah, what’s the word?”

“Dunno, doesn’t it sound like anything? Haven’t you heard it somewhere? It’s so familiar.”

“Very McCartney,” John finishes. “Haven’t heard it before in me life, love. It just sounds like one of yours.”

John nearly brings Paul to tears with one of the songs he’d written at George’s, a beautiful acoustic ballad for Paul. “ _Dear Paulie, let me see you smile. Dear Paulie, like a little child…_ ” Paul is mesmerized to the point that he pushes the guitar away halfway through the song in order to kiss him. John grumbles, “You’re missing the best part, you git,” and Paul just laughs and kisses him harder.

“You’re the best part,” he says.

“I know,” John replies, grinning.

“You know you’re going to have to change the lyrics, right? You can’t be writing love songs for me. People will talk.”

“As well they should! We’re the fuckin’ power couple of the twentieth century, goddamn it.”

“Jo _-ohhn_.”

“Oh, fine. I’ll think of another name.” John sighs. “The things I do for you.”

~ ~ ~

They stay up late that night watching evening television programs and fiddling with guitars during the commercial breaks as the sun sets outside. At some point they stop paying attention to what the shows are saying, satisfied with pressing themselves against each other and absorbing the other’s warmth.

The guitars are eventually set aside, the TV turned down low, and they lie on the couch together and talk. About everything, and about nothing at all, and it’s the best thing that’s happened since Paul regained his hearing. It’s blissfully simple, looking at each other and saying the words they haven’t been able to say for so long. 

And it’s not like before; it’s _better_. Every word is more important, more fragile, more _beautiful_ than they ever could have understood before the accident.

Some time after two they run out of words to say, at least for the night. They lie there, just being. Together.

Finally John grunts, shifting under Paul’s weight. “I could do with some tea.”

Paul lifts himself off. “Want me to make some?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” John says. “I’m gonna be in bed.”

When John sees Paul return with the teacups, he makes a noise in his throat and reaches out to tug Paul toward him without warning. Paul hisses, setting the tea down on the nightstand before John makes any other rash movements. “You’re gonna scald yourself, idiot.”

John just kisses him, weaving a hand through his hair and wrapping an arm around his waist. “Missed you,” he says, soft, and Paul feels himself melt.

“You’re crazy,” he says. “I was only gone a moment.”

John huffs, unsatisfied. Suddenly, inexplicably, he wants Paul closer, wants him all over, wants him forever. “ _You_ make me crazy.”

“Are you all right, though, really?”

“I just…” John strokes his fingers through Paul’s hair, trying to ground himself to the fact that Paul is really there, with him. “I can’t believe you’re back.”

“Me either,” Paul says, squeezing John’s arm. “Now, drink your tea, you lunatic.”

~ ~ ~

As John blinks into consciousness, Paul’s fondly smiling face is the first thing he sees. He smiles back sleepily. Paul pulls himself closer, his nose almost touching John’s.

“Hello,” John says.

“Hi,” Paul says back. “Did you miss me?”

“Mm. Always,” John says, letting Paul make his way toward his lips. “Did you miss me?”

“Nope,” Paul says, and John pulls back, mock-offended. “Didn’t need to,” Paul amends, brushing his lips against John’s jaw. “You held me all night.”

“Oh,” John says. “Good.”

Paul smiles, watching him. “Say something, Johnny.”

“What?”

“I dunno, something.”

“Your breath stinks,” John says.

“Oooh, you bastard. I meant something romantic.”

“You breath stinks, _dear_.”

“Oh, fuck off!”

John laughs and pulls him closer. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Paul says, putting his forehead in the crook of John’s neck, “I know.”

~ ~ ~

It is the 265th morning that Paul has woken up in John’s bed. He’s still keeping track, even if he had to count the days he missed after the accident. He lost a few month’s worth of waking up before John, but he knows he won’t make that mistake again. Because Paul loves turning over and seeing him there, soft and sleepy and beautiful. Paul loves watching his eyes flutter open and come into focus, squinting without his glasses, smiling back at Paul’s smile. He loves the slow kisses and the rasp of stubble and the sunlight on his skin.

But above all, Paul loves waking up to the sound of John’s voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who has supported me and this fic, I am so incredibly grateful that I had so many kind words and insightful comments helping me and motivating me to finish this thing. This has been quite an adventure for me, and I really hope it was worth it for all of you, too. THANK YOU, and don’t forget to tell me what you think!
> 
> I’ll be on a writing hiatus until further notice. School’s dumb and life is hard and I’m going to college soon and I’ll probably be working this summer so idk how much writing I’ll be doing after this. Whether or not this is the last thing I write, thank you so much for reading my shit. I love you all for it.


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